


No One To Save That Can't Be Saved

by BazzyBelle



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1960s, 1967 San Francisco, Black Panther Shep, COTTA 2020, Carry On Through The Ages, Civil Rights Movement, Counter Culture Movement, Counterculture, Feminism, Feminist Penny, Haight-Ashbury Revolution, He's just having a bad time, Jazz Club Owner Baz, LGBTQ Revolution, M/M, More tags to follow as I post, Murder, Murder Mystery, POV Simon Snow, Simon Ain't A Narc, Simon Snow Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Simon Snow Needs a Hug, Simon Snow is a P.I., Southern Belle Agatha, Summer of Love - Freeform, TW: Blood, TW: War Flashback, Vietnam War, War Vet Simon Snow, hippie movement, sexual revolution, tw: PTSD, tw: death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazzyBelle/pseuds/BazzyBelle
Summary: Simon Snow is not interested in any revolution.Living in San Francisco, he sees the people marching everyday, for freedom, equality, for their voices to be heard.He's just trying to survive day by day, living with the memories of his time in Vietnam, while trying to make ends meet, working as a Private Investigator.His life changes one day, when a passionate young woman bursts into his office, demanding his help to bring justice to her friends who've been viciously murdered.When Simon accepts this case, he is soon thrust into the middle of a Revolution that will see the world change for the better. He will soon see that nothing is what it seems, and his prior prejudices will be tested and broken.And he'll be forced to face not only the truth of the world around him, but the sad, broken eyes of the person he left a long time ago.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 29
Kudos: 44
Collections: Carry On Through The Ages





	1. Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my golly goodness... I have A LOT to say...
> 
> First of all, I am overwhelmed with the amount of love that COTTA has received. To everyone who posted content, reblogged, spread the world and love, thank you from the bottom of my heart. This first year of COTTA was a massive success, and I cannot wait to do this again next year! 
> 
> Next, thank you so so SO much to everyone who have been so supportive of me writing this fic. I had changed my idea halfway through the writing period and was worried that I would not have anything to post. But thank you to those who held my hand and supported me. 
> 
> [AbbyNormalJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbynormalj/pseuds/abbynormalj) for being my number one history researcher! Thank you for spending endless hours with me, going over research and for answering my questions about San Francisco life and lingo. Also thank you for being just such an amazing friend. I love you, sis!
> 
> [Waterwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings), thank you for constantly holding me accountable for my story and my words. You are persistent and you are willing to call me out on my distraction excuses. I adore you and love you. Thank you for being being my mental rock during this last month in particular. Love you so much!
> 
> [TBazzSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/gifts), you are the person I look up to the most. You love and support for everything I do means the absolute world to me. Thank you for being the most amazing Beta anyone could ask for, and for showing my fic the love and hype it deserves. Thank you for pushing me to keep writing and to never give up. Thank you for reminding me that I have a GOOD story to tell. 
> 
> [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu), for being one of the first people I shared my COTTA idea with, and for literally screaming in chat, and threatening me that I HAD to go through with me. SO yeah... thank Giishu for COTTA actually happening. If it weren't for their shouting and enthusiasm, I may not have gone through with it. Thank you for also being an amazing Beta, who is never afraid to point out my many many plot holes, and my unclear descriptions. 
> 
> [FoolOfABookWyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85/pseuds/Fool%20of%20a%20Book%20Wyrm), for being my Brain Cell Mate, and for just being the best person. You love and friendship mean the world to me. Thank you for supporting me through my decision to change COTTA ideas. Thank you also for creating the fancy workskin I'm using and for teaching me how to code my fic so that it looks cool and fancy-like. (Also thank you for forcing me to watch Hamilton... The musical has left me hopeleeeeeess!)
> 
> A note on this fic... It is VERY different than the type of stuff I usually write. It's a lot darker and grittier. I wanted to fit the mood of a typical film noir. With that being said, there will be some violent scenes, as well as mentions of blood and injuries.  
> Also, as this fic is taking place during a very tumultuous time, I have tried to depict the atmosphere of 1967 San Francisco as respectfully as I could.  
> Finally, Simon is a Vietnam War vet. Just a small Google search will tell you that the Vietnam War was brutal for all parties involved. A lot of people died horrifically, and in vain. I have tried to depict his PTSD as respectfully and as truthfully as I could. 
> 
> I will be including Trigger Warnings at the start of each chapter if they so apply. The trigger warning for this chapter include: Violence, Blood, Death, PTSD Flash backs, War flash backs, and panic attacks.

SACHA

He really should have left earlier.

The meeting had run a lot longer than expected, and it was nearing 2 in the morning. In normal circumstances, he would not have been so worried, but with the growing unrest in the city, the fuzz had been going after people who were found in the wrong place late at night. This neighbourhood, the Haight-Ashbury, was the worst of the wrong places. The cops loved to pick up any poor sucker walking around past midnight.

Didn’t matter if they were carrying dope or not.

If you were found _here_ , of all places, you may as well be a part of the “riff raff” that David Mage and his crew of pigs loved to target and bring down in his attempt to “clean the streets of San Francisco”.

Fuck… his head hurt…

He should have left earlier.

But he was making leeway with the other members of The Resistance. They had gone over the new list of student recruits who were willing to take the battle into the classrooms within their campuses. Words and articles weren’t working. Everyone was too fucking busy to stop and pay attention to what was going on.

They didn’t want to believe that the very idea of freedom and democracy was non-existent, and that true freedom only came to the few rich and powerful.

His grandparents had run away from this very thing in Russia. His parents had broken their backs for this country, his father having fought in World War II. And what did it get them?

To be persecuted and branded as Communists, because of their Russian heritage.

Yeah… So much for the Great American Dream.

And it seemed that no matter how much he screamed, how much he pleaded, and how much he worked to change things… No one gave a shit.

So they would MAKE them care.

By striking, and blocking classrooms, by bringing the fights and protests into the schools.

They would listen.

So in that small room, in the basement of the bar he worked at, Sacha spent too much time arguing and discussing, and drawing up plans.

Maybe if he had left earlier, he would have been accompanied by several comrades and wouldn’t have ended up walking home alone.

Maybe if he had left an hour earlier, he would not have been pursued by a shadowy figure in the night.

Maybe if he had left a few minutes earlier, he would not have died that night.

But, Sacha insisted on staying after everyone had left, so that he could clean up after everyone and lock up. He more than appreciated being given the space to work, and the least he could offer his patron was to make sure the space was ready for the next group that needed to use it.

So he now finds himself rushing as fast as he can to get back to his small apartment. He thinks about his girlfriend, probably worrying about him. She supports him as much as she can, but he knows that deep down, she wishes he would marry her and start a life with her.

And he wants to… he does.

But there are things to be done, and a war to be fought.

And Anna understands that. That’s why she comes with him to the protests, why she hands out pamphlets to her students, encouraging them to join The Resistance.

She’s a great person. She left her family back home in Wisconsin, in order to stay in San Francisco with him. She’s the shelter he needs after each protest turns violent. She’s the salvation after spending a night locked up and being on the receiving end of a battering stick.

She’s what Sacha thinks about as he picks up his step.

She’s what Sacha thinks about as he notices a swift figure moving on his left.

Sacha thinks it’s probably nothing…

So he makes a sharp turn down a street, that he would not normally travel down. He turns back to see if anyone is behind him.

No one is there.

He breathes a sigh of relief, but decides to start jogging, having enough of a scare to last him the rest of the week.

It happens suddenly.

One minute he’s turning onto his street.

And the next, a pair of rough hands grab him from behind and pull him into an alleyway.

Before he can react, his head slams against the rough brick of the building behind him.

The wave of nausea is immediate, and he struggles to get his bearings straight.

He loses his breath as several punches are delivered to his abdomen.

No… He won’t let things end this way. Sacha forces himself to swing his arms towards the hooded figure in front of him. He manages to catch the assailant once or twice. He doesn’t really know, because his mind is foggy and his head is spinning.

He is running completely on adrenaline and a need to survive.

He thinks about Anna again.

As the hooded figure grabs his jacket and slams him harder against the wall, and black spots dot his vision.

As a hand clamps around his neck, cutting off his air supply.

As he sees a glint off the corner of his eye.

He makes one last ditch effort to save himself, and thrusts his hands out towards the shadowed hood.

As he pulls the hood down, he feels a sudden and sharp pain in his stomach.

Sacha groans as the man drops him to the ground.

He’s breathing heavily… hands reaching for his wound, hoping to stop the blood from escaping his body.

_No… NO!_

__

It can’t end this way…

__

There’s so much left that I need to do…

__

I can’t…

__

_I can’t…_

The person who assaulted him bends down in front of Sacha and gently cups a hand under his chin. It almost feels tender… sympathetic even.

Sacha’s eyes widen as he looks at the person in front of him…

“But… you…”

His words are cut short by a steel kiss at the base of his neck.

As Sacha gasps and gurgles, watching his killer loom over him… One final thought crosses his mind…

If he had left an hour earlier… Maybe he would have seen Anna, one last time.

SIMON

I wake up just as the sun starts to rise.

I rub the sleep from my eyes and look over to the near empty bottle of Tennessee whiskey on my nightstand. It had helped me to fall asleep last night, just as it had done many a night before. Penny, my next door neighbor, says I should look into different methods to manage my… _difficulties_ falling asleep.

She calls it my difficulties… I call it something else entirely.

I run a hand over my head. I had shaved it about a week ago, but I can feel it already starting to grow again. I don’t like to let my hair grow too long. It becomes unruly, messy, unkempt. I like things to be as organized as possible. It prevents me from dissolving into a state of chaos.

And that’s the last thing I want to think about now…for my life to devolve into madness and chaos.

So I prefer to keep my small apartment as clean and minimal as possible. I mean, I don’t need much. I have my small bed, a night stand, and a few other small appliances on hand.

It’s good enough for me.

Penny will disagree, and she has, on more than one occasion, tried to sneak in a plant, or some art, or something else to “give my home a little bit of personality”. I understand her concern, but this isn’t my home… not really. It’s the place I sleep, eat, and more importantly, where I work.

The plants died after a few days, and I dropped off some of the art in one of those donation boxes around the city.

Penny stopped bringing me gifts after that.

Aside from the bottle of bourbon, my nightstand holds several notebooks. I never did like writing when I was a child, but I find that short, stunted notes help to keep my mind focused, on task. More importantly, it helps to document whenever I slip into one of my chaotic episodes.

So I write.

I’ve got several different colored notebooks, and they each serve a different function.

I write about my day (in my green notebook), my cases (in my red notebook), my dreams (in my blue notebook). I will write about my _“before”_ life. Before San Francisco, before the war, before being thrust into this new world of protests, and anarchy, and a belief that change is imminent (this is in my white notebook… it hasn’t been used as much as the others) (I don’t like to think about my past… about _before_ ).

I was never good with change. I’m still no good at change.

In one of my notebooks, I write my schedule for the day. I work as a private investigator, and in my line of work, I am sometimes handling more than one case a day. I’ve recently finished a whole week’s worth of cases from wives who wanted to know if their husbands were cheating (more often than not, they were) (sad, really), several other cases involved finding stolen property, and one very interesting case involving a thorough background check on a potential business partner for a prestigious law firm.

I have a few meetings today with potential clients and cases. I briefly look over my notes that I had taken when I received their phone calls.

Wilma Bellamy: Wants to meet to discuss her deceased husband’s life insurance being withheld from her.

Poor lady. Her husband had died in the war, almost immediately after he joined. He was one of the first to join willingly, but died of a heart attack during training. She was now fighting a case with the government.

I take these cases often. I’m not a lawyer, by no means. I mean, I can’t even imagine having to do all that reading. But I can do some digging into the company refusing to help her, maybe find something she could use in her case.

Gareth Anderson: Wanted to discuss the potential money laundering scheme that his business partner may have going on.

I have met Gareth on more than one occasion. He owns a designer belt company (how a belt can be designer, I’ll never know). On the phone, he told me that he suspected his partner of stealing some of the money in order to fund illicit activities.

I am not a cop. I do not have the power to arrest anyone. But I do have the trust of the local law enforcement officers, and should I find anything suspicious, I can usually count on someone from the force to back me up.

Agatha Wellbelove: My final appointment of the day. She didn’t say much on the phone, only that she is looking for justice for the murders of her friends.

I’m very interested in this case. I haven’t actually solved any murders, but I’m always up for a challenge. My first thought upon re-reading my notes is “why hasn’t this Agatha person gone to the police yet?”

I’m supposed to meet her in a few hours. That gives me plenty of time to freshen up and make some coffee for myself.

My apartment (and my office) is very small. I have a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. There is a little bit of space right next to the kitchen, where I’ve set up a desk and a small filing cabinet. This is my “office”. I’ve had the odd comment here and there that the cramped space and the limited amount of resources I’ve got is concerning, but I do good work, and I’m usually able to provide the answers people are looking for. My reputation speaks for itself I suppose.

I take a quick shower and brew a pot of coffee. Some music is playing from the small radio in my kitchen. It’s a brand new song from a British band I’ve never heard of. I don’t really pay attention, but I like having the background noise.

The music blends into the morning news. I pay attention while slowly drinking my coffee. There isn’t anything interesting to report. A few updates from Washington, a couple of stories coming from the Middle East. I almost zone out completely, when the newscaster starts to talk about the daily updates from Vietnam.

I think I drop my coffee, but I can’t be too sure.

I hear a sharp ringing in my ears.

 _“...Bodies of 168 servicemen are scheduled to come home today…”_

I was there once… In a cramped aircraft…

Bandaged up…

Surrounded by American flags and silence.

 _“... President Johnson to meet with…”_

I can’t hear anything anymore.

My head feels heavy.

My heart is thumping wildly in my chest.

I need to get out of here.

Am I surrounded again?

Where are my friends?

Where is the way out of here?

Fuck… are there gunshots?

Did I see something move?

Fuck!

 _FUCK!_

I can’t move.

I can’t feel my legs!

I’m dying…

I’m only 25…

I can’t die…

I’m dying…

 _“... I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you, for all my life! When you’re with me, baby the skies will be blue for all my life!”_

What…? Where’s that music coming from?

The floor feels cold against my body. I’m not laying in the muddy swamps, I’m in my apartment. I’m not surrounded by angry soldiers, I’m alone…

 _“... It had to be, the only one for me is you, and you for me. So happy together…”_

My heart isn’t beating out of my chest anymore. I think I can breathe. I lift myself from the floor.

 _Fuck…_ How long was I out that time? I glance at the clock on my wall, and notice that at least a half an hour has passed. I run a hand over my head. That episode was one of the worst ones I’ve had, I think. I’m usually able to avoid an episode before they start, but sometimes, they come out of nowhere.

For the most part, I can handle hearing about news from the front. I don’t know what’s been happening to me recently, but it’s like my mind doesn’t want to leave the swamps and the rain behind.

I’m stuck back there, and no matter how much I try to carry on, I can’t.

I’m fucking sick of it.

A small black notebook calls to me from my desk. It’s contents are as dark as the cover. I stare at the spirals as the storms in my head clear up. This is the notebook where the dreams from Vietnam and the images of that war fill the pages. With those images, I lose my words… so I draw. Page after page, there are images of eyes hidden in shadows, claws emerging from the skies, faces floating in the water.

The fucking faces…

I think that’s the worst part.

I want to grab a drink… wash all of this away.

But it’s almost 8:00 am, and my first appointment is in half an hour.

So, I take a deep breath, and do what I do best… File this episode away to maybe think about later (or not at all) (hopefully not, if I can help it).

I close my red notebook. Gareth left about 15 minutes ago and I’ve just spent the last 15 minutes trying to draw up a basic plan on how I will be tackling his case.

I glance at my clock. It’s nearly 4:00 pm. _Goddamn it!_ That meeting had gone a lot longer than I intended. I was hoping to grab a quick bite to eat at the diner across the street before meeting with Ms. Wellbelove, but she should be arriving within the next 15 minutes or so. Instead, I raid my fridge for anything that can sustain me for another long meeting. I find an orange and some strawberries.

I read over the rough notes I took when she had called me earlier this week. I can’t make much sense of them. Agatha had not wanted to discuss anything over the phone. I remember that she was wary of trusting anyone with her case.

I can’t help but wonder what the police have found already. Typically, those who come to me with a murder do it because they weren’t happy with the initial investigation. No one’s happy with how the police do their jobs these days. But I know Commissioner Mage, and I know that he runs a tight, but fair ship. And the Mage I know would never let a murder slip through the cracks. I have to believe that much (this is the same man who encouraged me to fight for America and defend our democratic freedoms).

My thoughts are interrupted by a series of knocks on the door.

“Come in!” I shout out.

The first thing I notice about Agatha is her long, pale yellow hair. It’s almost platinum, and it catches the little light in my apartment. It’s long and several flowers are woven into it. Agatha is wearing an orange and brown dress, with pink and orange threading. I stop myself from rolling my eyes. I already know her type. I see them on the streets, yelling and marching against the War, against people like me who put their lives on the line in order to protect them.

Agatha approaches my desk, and I can tell by the way she carries herself that she comes from a life of privilege (though I can't really guess from where). She almost floats when she walks towards me, her gait delicate, as if she’s had to practice it over and over. Her head slightly upturned, and although her hair is interwoven with flowers and some beads, it shines in the sunlight peeking into my apartment. Her clothes, while bohemian in style, look expensive (or at least, more expensive than anything I own).

“Agatha Wellbelove,” she says “Am I to presume that you are Mr. Simon Snow?”

Ah… Southern then. That strong Georgian accent is hard to mask. I stand and hold out my hand.

“That’s me. How can I help you today, Miss. Wellbelove?”

Agatha squints her eyes at me as she takes a seat. She pulls out three manila folders from her suede bag and places them in front of her.

“Ms. Wellbelove, if you insist on being proper. Otherwise, just Agatha will do.”

“Very well… _Agatha_ , what can I help you with?”

“It is very important to me and the people _involved_ in this case, that we have your trust and good faith.”

I frown, and take a deep breath. I don’t like the sound of this. Most of what I do relies on the use of contacts within the city. Contacts that prefer to know the details of the cases I work on. I’m also not someone who likes to get involved in shady business. However, I can’t help my curiosity, and so I nod.

“Sure, Agatha. What we discuss here will remain in between us. You have my word as a Private Investigator.”

That seems to satisfy her, because she opens up one of the folders. In it, there is a picture of a young man, along with several pages full of notes.

“This is Sacha Petrenko. About two weeks ago, he was found brutally murdered near his apartment on Haight. I do not have an official police report on the murder, but I know that he was stabbed in the abdomen, and his throat was slashed.”

I quickly scan over Agatha’s notes. Through her delicate, fancy script, I take note of some information that sticks out. Sacha was a son of Russian immigrants (interesting…) he worked as a bartender, and was a part of a radical revolutionary group (very interesting…). I make a note in my book to review everything written here, once my meeting is done.

“I didn’t hear any news reports on his mur--”

“That’s because the police aren’t investigating his murder!” Agatha snaps.

I frown. I look over the details again, and notice that the streets of Fulton and Page were known to be violent. Normally, there would be police patrolling the area for this very reason. I wonder if it’s related to the rise in crime in that particular neighborhood, and if so, why wasn’t it prevented?

“Could it be that your friend was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Agatha rolls her eyes and opens another manilla folder. This folder holds the picture of a smiling black man. There is something about his face that looks...almost familiar?. His photograph was in the paper, not because of his murder, but because of the small protest that his murder sparked. Agatha starts to talk.

“Damon Jackson… He was killed about 4 weeks ago. Police dismissed it as inner city violence, but Damon was beloved by his community. No one there would have dared to hurt him.”

I’m paying attention now. I casually gloss over the notes written about Mr. Jackson, and find that he was murdered the same way; a couple of blocks from his home, and with a stab wound to the abdomen, as well as a slash to the neck.

“They were both murdered the same way…” I mumble to myself. Agatha is peering over at me, her brown eyes staring intently at what I’m doing. I must be the only person willing to listen to her.

“There’s more…” she says.

I look up and Agatha is opening her third manila folder.

_Another victim?_

This last folder has a photo of a very young woman with a wide smile, and thick curly hair.

“Elspeth Jones”, Agatha whispers, sadly.

“Another friend of yours?”

“Sacha was my only close friend, but all of us… we travelled in similar circles. Elspeth and I… we didn’t always get along, but her death shook me… Then Damon, and now Sacha… Mr. Snow…”

“Simon… you can call me Simon…”

Agatha nods, big brown eyes staring intently at me. I can tell that this is something very near and dear to her heart. She’s frowning, and her shoulders look tense. She’s ready for a fight, even though I haven’t agreed, or refused to take her case.

“Simon,” her Southern accent replying in almost a sing-song voice. “The police are ignoring me. I have been to several other P.I.s who have all dismissed me as delusional or paranoid.”

I roll my eyes. In my line of work, I have met some very arrogant individuals. Folks who’ll skim over details and important information in order to settle a case quickly and get paid. Most of the time, their conclusions will be wrong, and cause unnecessary heartbreak.

I still have trouble believing that Davy’s force would ignore something like this. He’s the person who taught me to always look at a problem with extreme precision. To never ignore information, even though it looked small and insignificant.

As I look at Elspeth’s picture and read Agatha’s notes, one thing is very clear to me.

There’s a serial killer on the loose.

“Why come to me?” I ask her.

Agatha tucks a braided strand behind her ear. She’s a very pretty girl, an almost ethereal beauty… Like a character out of a fairy tale. The princess you save at the end of the story. On the other hand, with the way she’s been staring and snapping at me, she may as well be her own heroine… or perhaps a femme fatale.

“I’ll be honest with you, Simon,” she starts. “Upon looking at you, my first reaction was to turn around and walk away. You have that whole straight and narrow groove going on. You’re probably someone I shouldn’t trust.”

I roll my eyes. I’m used to this. People used to make assumptions about me all the time. I was seen as a thug, and a tough guy when I was younger. No one wanted to really talk to me then.

Well…there was one person…

But no… I keep that person locked up tight and refuse to think about them. They’ve been pushed away, one of the many things I refuse to think about. On the nights, where the episodes and the dark swamps keep me awake, I’ll try to write out the things I refuse to think about…

Each and every time, they will be the first item on the list.

But anyway… Yes, I can understand why Agatha is apprehensive with me. I look like someone more likely to arrest her, or report her to the authorities.

Which, I mean, fair…

But at the same time, I’m no nark. I may, on occasion, ask for consultation from Davy, but I have never revealed the intimate details of my cases to the police force.

I have a strict code I go by… Nothing is more important than the safety of my clients.

On the other hand… I have never had to deal with a case like this… _A potential serial killer?_

“If you don’t trust me, why come to me?”

Agatha smiles thoughtfully. She fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“A dear friend of mine seems to trust you very much. She says that you’re one of the most observant people she knows. She also said that if there was anyone I could trust, it would be you.”

I didn’t think anyone thought that highly of me. I don’t make it a habit to get to know my clients very well. I can’t afford to really get to know anyone intimately. Besides, mixing friendship and business is never a good idea. Things become too complicated…

“May I ask who this friend of yours is?”

Agatha laughs and nods to her right. In the direction of Penny’s apartment.

“Penelope is your biggest fan. She keeps singing your praises…”

I groan and rub my eyes.

_Penelope…_ Of fucking course. I shouldn’t be surprised at all. Penny just can’t leave well enough alone. She’s been worried about me ever since we met almost a year ago. She doesn’t think I’m getting enough business to keep myself alive…

“Ah… I wasn’t aware that you and Penelope knew each other.”

“We travel in similar circles...”

“The same circles as all three victims, right?”

Agatha narrows her eyes at me. “It’s a very large circle, Mr. Snow… one with many connections and people working together.”

“So you think this killer is picking off friends in your circle? This very large, very interconnected circle…”

Agatha sighs and flips some of her hair out of her face (how does one have hair that shiny?), she points to some information on Sacha’s folder.

“Sacha was a very loud member of The Resistance. He fought every day to get people to care about the injustice of the War. He wanted to bring soldiers home and stop more unnecessary death from occurring. He was smarter than I could ever wish to be.”

I’m about to object, when Agatha holds up her hand.

“I’m not done.” She points to Damon’s notes next.

“Damon was a member of the Black Panther Party. He used to write poetry about freedom and equality. Poems about being seen and about wanting a voice in a world that refuses to listen. He was a genius and a philosopher.”

Agatha pulls out a handkerchief from her purse and dabs at her eyes. I offer some tissue to her, but she refuses. She clears her throat and points to the last folder.

“I didn’t know Elspeth that well, but she was strong. From the few conversations I’ve had with her, she was ready for the fight, no matter how dirty it needed to be. She wasn’t afraid to attack and to call out those who weren’t playing their part in the fight.”

Agatha roughly closes each folder shut and puts them in a neat pile in front of me. She presses her hands on top of the folders, brown eyes never leaving mine. I notice a strong spark in her, a spark that tells the story of a girl who (like me) had been misjudged and misunderstood all her life. A spark of someone who’s _tired_ of everything.

“These were important people who were targeted and killed. They were bright lights in their communities, and they have been snuffed out by someone who wants us to be silent!”

I lean back against my chair. I have seen passion and anger in many forms. A wife wanting to know if her spouse was being unfaithful, a business partner being cheated out of a deal, someone being treated unfairly by the government or by some establishment or another…

But this… this is a different passion. This is a call for justice, or acknowledgment. I tentatively reach over and place one of my hands over Agatha’s. I’m not normally touchy-feely with clients; I’m not good at the comforting thing. I honestly don’t know what’s pushed me to comfort Agatha in this case (I think, maybe, it’s just the right thing to do).

“I believe you,” I quietly say. Agatha sniffs and looks up at me. She wipes her eyes again (they’ve gotten a little messy from crying) and nods to me.

“I can’t let their deaths go without a fight. The fuzz may want to keep this wrapped up and quiet… But I won’t let them. I won’t be silent.”

I nod at her… “Ok…I’ll take your case.”

I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this. I mean…yes, the case is very interesting, and I do feel sorry for this girl. And of course, the fact that she knows Penelope, the fact that Penelope may know some of the victims involved…

Aside from all that, I’ve got a _feeling_ about this case. I don’t believe in fate or secret strings pulling us towards a specific destiny (people around here, the hippies specifically, are all about that stuff), but I do believe in instinct and intuition. And right now, my instinct is telling me to take this case. I have a feeling that It’ll be an important one.

Agatha is staring at me, her eyes wide. A smile spreads across her lips, and before I can stop her, she’s leaping out of her chair and is trying to make her way to give me a hug.

_No! Stop!_

In my panic to get out of my seat, I nearly stumble to the floor. I, thankfully, catch myself and back away from her, keeping my arms between us.

“N-no… I… please… I don’t-”

Agatha stops short and gasps, putting her hands to her lips. She backs away quickly.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I’m not normally so careless!”

“S’fine… R-really. I mean. I just don’t like hugs. It isn’t anything you did… I don’t…”

I’m rambling. Fuck. I’ve worked so hard at making sure I can speak properly. I’m not perfect, and more often than not, I lose my thoughts and my words just escape me. Times like this, when I’m caught off guard, are the worst.

I look up at Agatha. She looks shocked, worried. Like she’s just committed the worst offence against me.

I’m not a physical person. I mean… I used to be. I used to talk with my fists instead of my mouth. But I’ve never been that great with physical affection.

And since coming back home… it’s gotten a lot worse. I’m trying to find ways to fix things, and if I’m comfortable with the person, I can hug them just fine (I’ve hugged Penelope several times, without issue). But someone coming at me…

I take a few deep breaths. I look at my wall, and count the cracks there. It usually helps to calm me down. If I can hold onto something in my apartement, it can usually keep me here.

I look at Agatha again, and study the pattern of her dress, the beads attached to her purse, the flowers in her hair.

I clear my throat.

“It’s ok…sorry about that. I’m not a fan of hugs.”

Agatha looks at me with pity (I fucking hate that), and simply nods. She slowly walks back to her seat, and pulls out a pen from her bag, and writes a number on one of the folders.

“Here is a number you can reach me at, in case you need to meet up to discuss details and whatnot. Call that number and ask for Agatha.”

I look at the number scribbled on the folder. “Is this where you work?”

“Somewhat… It’s The Catacombs club. I’m in charge of scheduling and bookings.”

_The Catacombs…_ Is that supposed to mean anything to me? I shrug at her. Agatha raises her eyebrows.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve never heard of it. I don’t think it’s your kind of place…”

“If I’m gonna take your case, you need to quit it with the assumptions. Now, if I need to find you at this club, I can handle it.”

Agatha gives me a half smile and starts to head towards the door. I follow behind her, hands in my back pockets.

Agatha steps halfway out the door, before turning back to me one last time.

“I know you probably have some thoughts and opinions on my friends and our _lifestyles_ , but I just…I hope…”

Now it’s my turn to lift a hand up.

“Look, even if I have my reservations and my opinions, your friends deserve justice and someone to fight for them. And I intend to follow through, in any way I can.”

That seems to make her happy, because she nods and turns away. I watch her as she exits my hallway and heads down the stairs.

Once she’s gone, I close the door and let out a big sigh.

_What the fuck have I gotten myself into now…?_


	2. How Many Roads Must I Travel Down?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon has a lovely evening with a very dear friend, which has leads to a heartbreaking revelation about his time overseas. 
> 
> He makes a game plan to tackle the case, after reviewing victim information found in Agatha's file folders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos, your reblogs, and your comments! I am so behind on responding to them, but I am going to get over my anxiety and respond to them as soon as I can!
> 
> Thank you to:
> 
> [FoolOfABookWyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85) for being my Brain Mate, and for spending all day looking for the perfect font for Simon's notes. Thank you for building the skin for this story! I Love youuuu!
> 
> [AbbyNormalJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbynormalj/pseuds/abbynormalj) for being my historical sounding board and my hype person for this fic. Thank you for hyping up the snippets I send you, as well as the plot ideas I have. Thank you also for being my plot sounding board and for brainstorming when I have no ideas. Love you, sis!
> 
> [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) and [TBazzSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri) for being the two best Beats a writer could ask for. For pointing out every single inconsistency and for making sure that my narrative flows perfectly. Thank you for offering linguistical suggestions and sentence restructuring. Thank you for also being non stop support for me as I write and review this story. This story means a lot to me, and your care and honesty about it is priceless. 
> 
> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains some war flashbacks and has some graphic content. There is mention of dead bodies and blood.

I walk to my desk and collapse into my chair, and pull up the stack of folders and fiddle with the corners. I should probably start reading up on these victims, and see if there are any potential links between the three. Other than Agatha herself, of course. 

I don’t rule out the possibility that she is the key connecting all three together, but her interactions with the first two victims were minimal.

I get up from my desk and wander towards my sink. I grab a glass of water and slowly drink, thinking back on the three cases that presented themselves to me today. If I dedicate a couple of hours each day to each of the three cases, I should be able to keep a steady flow of work going for myself. 

Being busy… It _helps_. I don’t think about the memories if my mind is focused on other things. Overworking and keeping myself occupied leaves no room in the brain for anything else. 

I suppose that explains why my cases get solved fairly quickly. 

A glance at my clock tells me that it’s nearing a half past 6. I should probably get some food, before diving into this case. 

I’m locking up my apartment, completely focused on thinking about my list for tonight, when I hear her. 

“Simon!”

I turn my head to see Penny running down the hall to greet me.

Penelope Bunce… She’s all fire and frizzy hair. Penny moved to San Francisco from Rochester, New York. Her mother is from India, and her father’s from Canada. Penelope’s parents caused a massive scandal amongst the (as Penny puts it) “old fashioned bigots and racists’.

Penny’s mother insisted that her children receive the best education possible. She was remarkably progressive, considering the attitude of their town. Penny tells me that it was her mother who convinced her to move down to San Francisco.

By the time she got here, I had already been living in my tiny apartment for several months. I wasn’t all that interested in meeting other people. But Penny… well… she’s painfully stubborn. And as I quickly found out, once she sets her mind to something, it’s nearly impossible to convince her to change it. 

I don’t think I even spoke two words to her when she decided she was going to be my friend. It was such a weird introduction. She was struggling with a box, and when I’d asked her if she needed any help, she shook her head and turned away. I had shrugged and continued about my business. The next thing I know, she’s standing in front of me, peering at me over her large, purple cat-eyed glasses. 

“You didn’t insist!” She’d yelled at me. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You asked if I needed help, I ignored you, and you went away! You didn’t insist!”

I remember being confused, scratching the top of my head. I was never really good at knowing what people wanted from me (or if any conversation was some sort of secret test of something). “Uhh… w-was I supposed to…?”

“Why didn’t you?”

I shrugged, “I figured if you didn’t respond, you probably had it covered. Plus, I didn’t think you’d want to talk to someone you barely knew.”

She was quiet then. Kept staring at me, her brows furrowed. She looked at me, up and down (I now call that the “Penny Thinking Look”). 

“Ok… We can be friends. I’m Penelope Bunce!” She’d said, sticking her hand out. 

I’d cautiously taken it, “Umm… I’m Simon… Simon Snow.”

“Excellent! I think you’re going to be my best friend here, Simon!”

I shrugged again. I wasn’t entirely sure about how I’d felt about this random person, barging into my life, and suddenly deciding to be my best friend… Yet, here we are, about a year later, and Penny’s pretty much my only friend in the city. 

“Hey Penny. How are you?”

Penny approaches me slowly. She knows how skittish I can be when it comes to sudden movements, so she makes an effort to approach me calmly and with care. She lifts her arms up, beckoning me for a hug. I nervously shake my head (I’m still thinking about the interaction with Agatha earlier). Penny simply smiles and lowers her arms. 

“I’m great, Simon. The journal accepted my latest article!”

“Penny! That’s amazing! Congratulations!”

Penny is honestly the smartest person I know. She’s written plenty of articles and papers on equality between men and women, about civil rights, and a lot of other things I don’t really understand. But, Penny is passionate about it, and she loves to talk to me about these things, so I simply smile and nod, trying to understand as she shouts about Simone de Beauvoir and Gloria Steinem. It gets difficult after a while and I can’t help but tune it out.

“Have you eaten, yet?”

“I was about to grab a bite to eat at the diner.”

Penny frowns and shakes her head, “Simon Snow! You spend far too much time in that diner! The amount of grease and spices they use will cause you to get a heart attack by the age of 40!”

“If that’s the way I’ll go, I’ll be happy for it!”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Come over! I made a whole bunch of Biryani this morning! Definitely enough for the both of us!”

I take a step back. Penny’s always trying to force food down my throat, and while I don’t mind a nice home cooked meal, I hate to put her out of the food she worked so hard to make for herself. I start to protest, but Penny waves me off. 

“Oh stop it! Look at it this way, I need someone to celebrate my brilliance with. So, how’s this, I’ll get the food, and bring it over to your place?”

“Penny! I have case files scattered all over my desk! I can’t just have you over.”

Penny’s already unlocking her door and stepping into her apartment. She waves one of her hands out of the door, and that’s the end of our conversation. 

I sigh and head back inside my apartment. I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea to pick Penny’s brain on the potential serial killer case. After all, she probably knows everyone involved with the case, she may be able to give me an idea of where to start. 

I manage to get my eating area tidied up and my table set up, by the time Penny’s knocking on my door. She’s carrying a very large bowl of some sort of food (which I’ve forgotten the name of). We settle close to each other on my tiny dinner table and she serves us the meal. My stomach growls as I take in the scents of spices and chicken. 

It’s delicious.

“So what have you been up to, while I was out dismantling the patriarchy?”

“Nothing much, I was home all day, meeting with clients.”

“Anything interesting?”

I shove a forkful of biryani into my mouth. It’s so damn good. As much as I fight her on it, I really do appreciate when she offers to bring me food. I have always wanted to learn how to cook or bake, but I never got around to learning… Then I enlisted to fight, and well… I’m here now. But eating the food Penny’s made, savouring the different flavours, I can’t help but wish I had pursued cooking more seriously. 

Penny looks over to the pile of files neatly stacked on my desk. She points to them. 

“Is that a new case?”

“Maybe. It’s certainly interesting. Your friend brought it to me.”

Penny’s face brightens. “Agatha came to see you!? Oh it’s about time! I told her days ago to give you a call! That damn fuzz kept ignoring her and treating her like some riff raff. Can you imagine?”

I give her a sharp look. Penny knows I don’t like talking about the police here. She knows that I’m connected to Davy Mage (she hates that I am, and never holds back in telling me so), and as such hearing her complaints about the police force is a sore subject for me.

She sighs and rolls her eyes, as she takes another spoonful of rice and chicken.

“She did come to see me. I didn’t get a chance to read over the notes she brought me, but Agatha is probably one of the most passionate clients I’ve met. She came in here, ready to fight me.”

“She’s been trying to find someone who’d take her seriously for a long time. After Damon was killed, we were all shook up. It was worse because the police refused to look into the case. They dismissed it as riot violence. Even though a whole bunch of us marched for justice. Then Sacha died…” Penny shook her head.

“Were she and him…” I start.

“Oh God, no! Sacha was involved with someone else. No, I think he was one of the first people Agatha met when she came down here. Well, him and the guy who owns that club she works at.”

“Catacombs… right?”

“That’s the one. Small, quiet place. They play jazz and folk music, depending on the day, and on the owner’s mood. A few times, they’ve had poets there, reading. I’ve been invited to perform several times.”

I take several more bites, thinking about where I want to steer this conversation. 

This is the second time I’m hearing about this Catacombs club. I wonder if there’s a whole other side to the case to consider. 

“Penny… did you know the other two victims?”

“I knew Elspeth really well. We had taken several classes together, and had collaborated on some research papers. She was brilliant, and way too fucking young to die. She would be at the club often, writing about the shows and performers there, you know? Anything to raise the voices of the movement.”

Penny clears her throat and takes several deep breaths, like she’s about to start crying. I bring her some tissues, but she shakes her head and waves me away. 

“I’m alright. Thanks, Simon. Agatha and I were talking about these murders… we’re worried about our community and about our friends.”

I nod. Penny’s involved with a lot of the protests that go on in the city. I’ve seen them nearly everyday, as I run my errands, or pursue case leads. Most of them are young people, marching to demand an end to ‘Nam. More than once, I’ve wanted to ask one of the marchers if they truly believed that their marching, and screaming, and spitting on the graves of the people who died in these wars would truly fix anything... 

It wouldn’t. All they were doing was angering a bunch of vets (like myself).

Penny marches against the war, but she also marches for the end of sexual oppression. She tells me that there is more to her life than being a wife and a mother, and that she should not have to choose between her career and a family. She tells me often about the rise in contraceptives, and how the government keeps trying to suppress them. 

Penny marches for the right to control her own life and (in her own words) “gain control of her own body”.

“Are you ok?” I ask her. She clears her throat once more and nods.

“Yeah. I’m glad that you’re taking this case, Simon.”

I give her a small smile and stuff some more food in my mouth. I want to ask her more questions about Elspeth, and Damon. But I’m sure that to ask her again would hurt her more, so I decide against it. There is something, however, that I can ask her. 

“Tell me more about The Catacombs.”

Penny starts drinking some of her water. “What do you want to know?”

“Why you, Agatha, and Elspeth are all seemingly connected to this club? Is there seedy business going on in there?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Simon… It’s a jazz club. But considering it invites community speakers to read their poetry and proclaim their speeches, I wouldn’t be surprised if the owner were on Hoover’s watch list.”

Now _there’s_ an interesting thought. I wonder what this owner has done in order to get himself on the FBI watch list. Could be anything, really. Even just participating in some of these protests, and being a big enough name is enough to get you on these lists. The FBI is so fucking paranoid… I remember, before I enlisted in the war, there was practically a witch hunt for people who were suspected of being Commies.

I wonder if the owner is a Communist… That would certainly earn him a spot on the watch list. 

“Think I’d be able to talk to the owner?”

Penny laughs, nearly spitting water out of her nose. “Not a chance. He rarely talks to anyone. He’s a very private guy. But like I said, considering his club, and what goes on in there, he has every right to keep himself hidden. Last thing he needs is a nark selling him out.”

I glare at her. This is one of the very few things that upsets me when it comes to Penny (it’s also one of the more hurtful things she says to me). 

“I’m not a nark, Penny! You know this!”

Penny momentarily flinches, but regains her composure. I don’t like to lose my temper, especially not with her. I don’t have much to my name, but I do have my honesty and my integrity. Most of all, I have my loyalty to my clients and to those who come to me for help. I have never, nor will I ever release confidential information about any of my cases. 

It’s one of the few rules I have for myself.

And for Penny to throw that in my face, even after she knows that I would never do such a thing.

Yeah… it’s really fucking hurtful.

Penny sighs. Her eyes are remorseful, but I can already tell that this is going to be a fight between us. “But you are connected to the police force, through Dirty Davy!”

And there it is. I should have seen this coming.

Penny has never approved of my involvement with the Police Commissioner, Davy Mage. In fact, she is very vocal about how much she hates it. She’ll tell me time and time again that I’m too good to ever be connected to a person like him.

She doesn’t understand… Davy’s given me everything. He took me in when I was nothing but an angry kid that no one wanted anything to do with. My parents abandoned me right when I was born, and because of the war, no one really wanted another mouth to feed. So, I spent many lonely years in lonely, cold orphanages. With all the disinterested caregivers, and, it’s a miracle I made it out of there without contracting some disease or being permanently scarred by the neglect.

When I was eleven, Davy adopted me. He took me in, he was able to send me to one of the best schools in the area. A school that I adored, and where I not only got a great education, but where I met my oldest (and dearest) friend. 

A friend that I haven’t heard from in years.

When I was of age, it was Davy who convinced me to enlist in Vietnam. Davy fought against the Germans in 1942, and he believed that it was honorable to fight for your country. So I joined the military…

And made the biggest mistake of my life. 

While I’ll be forever grateful to Davy for raising me, supporting me, and even now, helping me get my office established, I don’t think I’ll ever be alright to talk to him about what happened _there_ , and what he pushed me to do. 

Penny calls him “Dirty Davy” because according to her (and the circle of friends she travels with), Davy’s been involved with covering up the abuse and negligence of the police. She says it’s because he’s connected to Governor Reagan (which is a whole other issue Penny loves bringing up). 

As for me… I can’t think of Davy being like that. I refuse to consider him being anything more than the strict, no nonsense father he always was. He’s all the family I got. I don’t know what I would do if I found out that he was just as bad as the criminals he’s helped put in jail.

Maybe these conflicting feelings I have towards the man that raised me is partially the reason why I get so annoyed with Penny when she gets like this. 

“Don’t call him that… Not in front of me, at least.” It comes out softer than I had intended. But I’m just so tired. It’s been a long day (days where I have episodes usually exhaust me), and my mind won’t stop buzzing over the serial killer ( _potential_ serial killer).

Penny looks like she’s about to fight me some more, but she just sighs and nods her head. “ _Fine_. But the pigs are very much disliked by patrons of The Catacombs. And you’re pretty much related to the head pork chop.”

“No one knows that! For all they know, I’m just a friend of yours, looking into these murders. I’m there to help!”

All this talk about Davy is getting me nervous. My blood’s beginning to boil. My face, my arms, my chest, all feel hot and clammy. My hand wanders to my chest and presses down slightly. My heart’s beating rapidly. I lower my head slightly, in an effort to get my breathing under control.

_Simon… calm down… don’t bring about another episode. You’ve already had two of them today!_

They sometimes do that… come in clusters that is. Usually, if I’m lucky, I’ll only get one every two days or so, but other times --especially when I’ve been stressed or in the middle of a shouting match-- they’ll come more often.

This conversation with Penny isn’t doing me any good, and if I want to prevent any more episodes from happening, I need to get a handle over my anger and my outbursts.

Penny knows that too, because she’s quiet now. She’s playing with the little food she’s got left on her plate, and chewing on her lip (a Penny sign for when she’s deep in thought). She knows I’m right. If I’m to get any leeway with this case, I’m going to have to start interviewing and investigating key areas. 

And it looks like The Catacombs is the place to begin.

“Ok. I’ll be your way into the club. But I’m warning you, my friends there don’t trust easily. You need to let them speak. Don’t assume, don’t press, and do not mention Davy or the police.”

I calm down a little, now that Penny is willing to help introduce me to people in her circle. I feel like she’s also got a good set of instincts. I feel like I can ask for her opinions on some of the patrons there, if anyone is worth me talking to or not. 

My breathing evens out and my heart slows down. 

“Obviously. I know how to talk to potential witnesses, Penny...”

“And don’t demand to speak to anyone. If anyone wants to talk to you, they will talk.”

“Right…”

Penny gives me a kind look and lightly grabs my arm. It still bothers me that she thinks I’ll turn against her or her friends. I know she cares, and doesn’t mean anything personal when she voices her concerns, so I don’t press the matter further, and the conversation ends there. Penny talks about her journal article, I talk about my other cases. 

Eventually, we clear out the table and clean up the place. As I wash the dishes, I think I see something moving in the water. As I peer closer into the dishwater, the bubbles and suds start to form faces.

Faces… in the water…

_No… NO! Stop it! Not in front of Penny… Keep it together, Simon!_

Deep breaths… Deep slow breaths. 

The faces pop up. 

I punch them away. As they bobble up, my fist connects with the water. I will not have another episode happening… Not while Penny is here. I need to keep it together in front of her, at least. She can’t see me as the loose cannon living next door to her. She’ll get scared, move away…

_Leave me…_

“Simon? Are you alright?”

My head shoots up… I take a deep breath and turn to Penny. I force a small smile on my face.

_Everything is fine. Keep it together…_

I’m not in ‘Nam, I’m back home…

Penny approaches me slowly (fuck, she’s terrified of me) and studies my face. She places her hands on my arms, and gives me a small questioning look.

“I’m ok, Penny… sorry. I... um… I just got distracted… yeah… That’s all…” I make a move to slowly push her away, but she holds on tight for a few beats, before deliberately moving her hands away, but keeping them outstretched for me. 

Oh.

She’s letting me decide if I want a hug. 

I nod and move in. Penny’s arms wrap around me and give me a tight squeeze. I sigh in relief. It grounds me, momentarily.

I’m so scared for when she leaves. I’ve had one full blown episode, and two very near ones. I know that having another full one is very likely. 

I may even completely have a blackout, where I spend several days in a complete haze. I’m a little hopeful that I can prevent that by just doing my best to remain calm.

Penny lets go of me and smiles sadly. She leads me to my table and hands me a glass of water, before heading to finish the dishes.

I should hate this, being treated by a child. I’m 25 years old, I’ve fought overseas and seen things that no one ever should. I know how to take care of myself. Yet, I can’t even handle sharing a meal with my friend without veering on the edge of a breakdown.

I’m pathetic.

Penny eventually collects her things and leaves. She tells me that she’ll check in on me tomorrow, to make sure I’m still alright (I do my best not to roll my eyes at her).

Standing in my living room/ kitchen/ office, I can’t help but notice that my apartment looks very dark and feels very cold right now. You’d think that being tossed around from care home to care home would make me used to being on my own. But the opposite is true. 

I hate being all by myself.

And my episodes happen more often during the night. 

It’s the shadows on the walls.

Most of the time, I know that they’re nothing more than the trees outside, or animals lurking about.

Most of the time, I know not to be terrified of them.

But not all the time.

Sometimes, the shadows on my walls are chasing me, hunting me through thick trees and tall grass.

Sometimes, the shadows on my wall push me into murky swamps, where the faces of my friends bobble in the water. 

Eyes blank.

Mouths open.

Sometimes, the shadows on the wall will strangle me. 

Pull me.

Drown me.

Deeper.

Deeper.

I’ll lose track of time.

I’ll forget where I am.

I’ll even lose myself

I never know what brings me back, or how long I’m out. Usually I’ll just find myself crumpled in a ball on my floor (It’s always my floor, even if the episode starts on my bed, or on my couch). I’m always tired though. I should have gone to bed a lot earlier, considering the episode I had this morning.

I grab my green notebook. Writing a few important details of the day helps a lot when I’m on high alert. It can sometimes help with the episodes.

Monday, May 22, 1967

Day ran by as normal as it could be.

Didn’t eat much… some fruit… some Indian food with Penny.

Took on three cases… 

  * Dirty company screwing over a war widow
  * Dirty businessman screwing over partner.
  * Serial killer? 

Need to look into Catacombs. More info will be written in the Red notebook.

Saw Penny. Helping me with case.

Had an episode.... Back in jungle.

Don’t know how it started. News? 

Gunshots.

Pain.

Humidity.

Brought back possibly by music? 

I’m so tired.




I’m not very good at finding the words to say. I just write whatever comes to mind and that’s that. It’s only here to help me keep track of my days, and as a way to force myself to feel normal.

Like… It’s normal to share a meal with your overly nosey neighbour.

It’s normal to meet with clients for the business you run.

While having an episode during the news report isn’t exactly normal, writing about it, feels like it is. 

I close my book and make my way to the washroom. I clean up, put my pyjamas on and slip into bed. I try not to think about the shadows on my wall, or about the noises of the people outside. 

I have to remember that I’m home.

I’m home. I’m safe. I’m not going back there. 

Fuck… it’s so dark, and the shadows look like they’re coming closer to me. 

I grab the bottle of bourbon on my nightstand and take a long, deep swig of the bottle. I may need to drain the entire bottle if I’m to fall asleep tonight. 

I pull the covers over my head, and repeat the reassurances. I’m praying that I can avoid another breakdown…

Even if sometimes, no matter what I try, or what I do, they still come…

They always come…

_Take a deep breath, Simon… You’re alright, and everything is fine…_

_The shadows are trees._

_The shadows are trees._

_The shadows are trees._

It’s been a few days since I took on these new cases. 

The last few days haven’t been… good. 

I don’t remember much of what happened, to be honest.

I do remember the images of blood, and trees, and _faces_.

Always the faces.

Although I wanted to fight her in the moment, I was happy once Penny showed up. The episodes are always less intense and don’t last as long if someone is there with me to bring me back.

She told me later on that was as if I were a whole other person. One minute staring blankly at my wall, and the next, screaming and writhing in pain. 

She stayed with me, until the episodes calmed down and started to fade. 

She held me and rubbed my back and my head. She let me cry on her shoulder. 

She brought me food and lavender tea. 

And told me that I needed to get help with my episodes. 

And we had a fight. 

And she left.

And I drew in my black book.

I drew faces, and shadows, and the images that tormented me every time I’d close my eyes.

Penny came back and we talked. She told me that she worries about me every single day, and that worry will only get worse now that she knows what I’ve been living with.

I know she wants to help, but this is my life… _I_ have to be the one that deals with it, not her. It isn’t her burden to carry.

I’m laying down on my bed, staring up at my ceiling. I need to get up, move forward, like I always do. I run my hand through the light fuzz on my head. I should get that shaved soon, but I think I can manage a few more days before it really starts to bother me.

I get out of bed. I need to shower and get myself some food.

I have to regain some sense of normalcy and control. These nightmares don’t control me, I’m stronger than this!

So I take a freezing cold shower. It feels amazing, not only because I run ridiculously hot, but it reminds me that I’m here, in my tiny San Francisco apartment. The cold helps me distance myself from the memories of stale heat.

Once I’m showered and have gotten myself some food to eat (thanks to Penny making sure that my refrigerator and my pantry were well stocked and ready to go), I take a look at my desk, and see the pile of folders still neatly organized.

I need to get cracking on that case. 

I grab a fresh bottle of the Tennessee Bourbon I enjoy so much and settle down at my desk. I open my red notebook and start to write as I read through Agatha’s notes. I mainly want to highlight and draw attention to anything that sticks out to me and that I need to follow up on.

Thursday, May 24, 1967 

Client #61 - Agatha Wellbelove 

Three victims each killed roughly 2-3 weeks apart from each other 

Last victim was killed almost 2 weeks ago. 

Elspeth Jones - 24 years old. 

  * Feminist writer and contributer to Oracle Magazine (revolutionary print)
  * Killed on April 1st, 1967
  * Very vocal about equality between men and women / reproductive rights
  * Reviewed shows and events held at The Catacombs (was there very often)
  * Prominent speaker for feminist rallies. 



Damon Jackson - 30 years old.

  * Jazz singer / poet
  * Sang at The Catacombs (again! ) Performed poetry readings there as well. 
  * Member of the Black Panthers Party (should I look into this?)
  * Killed on April 22nd, 1967
  * Death sparked outrage in Oakland. Demand for justice, when death was dismissed as crime-related violence.
  * Wrote and sang mainly about civil rights and struggle for freedom.
  * Performed primarily at Black-owned jazz clubs, but would routinely perform at The Catacombs (WHY!?! WHY THERE!?)



Sacha Petrenko - 28 years old

  * Anti-Vietnam (perfect…)
  * Very vocal during anti-war rallies
  * Part of the group known as The Resistance
  * Was arrested several times. All times released on bail (WHO BAILED HIM OUT!?)
  * Last name sounds Russian (do I look into this? Commie??)
  * Bartender at The Catacombs (DEFINITELY a connection here)
  * Killed on May 13, 1967
  * No investigation done… at all (what? Not possible… Ask Davy about this…)



What I know:

  * All victims were very vocal members of their communities. 
  * They were all pushing for equality and change
  * Killed within 3 weeks (to the day) of each other -- be on the lookout on June 3!!!!! 
  * ALL WORKED FOR OR WERE CONNECTED TO THE CATACOMBS!!!!



What I don’t know

  * Specifically how vic died (Agatha believes stab wounds and throat slash) (TALK TO DAVY)
  * Where each victim died (were they ALL just a few blocks from their homes?) (if so, the killer personally knew all of them… maybe?)
  * If the Catacombs is a coincidence, or if it’s truly connected. 
  * Are Penny and Agatha safe? They are both connected to vics... Keep an eye on them.



Places to start

  * Ask Davy for anything that was written up about the three victims (evidence, police reports, ANYTHING)
  * Ask about Petrenko? Doesn't look like Communism-related (but best to check every possible lead)
  * CATACOMBS -- (talk to owner!!!) (stake out the place -- possible 4th victim may be connected)
  * Talk to Penny about these revolution/resistance movements (how many are there? Who are the more vocal people? Are any of them connected to The Catacombs) -- need to pursue ALL possible leads! 
  * Talk to vic’s loved ones. (Roommates, partners, etc.) See if anything suspicious was going on on the day the vics died. Rule out coincidences.



By the time I’m done studying all the notes and making my own, it’s time for me to have some lunch. I had taken a few swings of the bourbon, and I feel it hitting me (specifically my head) pretty hard. I need to stop now, if I want to be any kind of useful today.

I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and reheat the samosas Penny gave me yesterday. 

This case looks to be more serious than I thought. There are not one, but two potential connections to follow. The more important of the two being The Catacombs lead. It can’t just be a coincidence that all three victims spent a lot of time there. It must be where the killer is picking off their victims.

If my theory is correct, the killer is specifically looking at loud, passionate resistance leaders. People who are able to amass large crowds and followings. People with influence. 

Makes sense… if you kill the head of a movement, it starts to crumble without a strong leader to replace them. 

It could be that this murderer is looking into stopping these grassroots movements from gaining support and traction. Killing the problems at the root. 

If that’s the case, I need to look into people who would benefit from these protestors and activists going away. Politicians? Businessmen? Conservative fanatics? The list is endless…

I need to know more about the crime scenes themselves in order to narrow down these possibilities. You can tell a lot about a killer’s mind by their M.O.

To do that, I’ll have to talk to Davy.


	3. Call it "Love", or Call it "Reason", But I Ain't Marchin' Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon has a serious conversation with his adoptive father, Police Commissioner Davy Mage, and makes a compromise that he is not too pleased with. 
> 
> He also almost punches a cop out... it happens, ya know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:
> 
> [AbbyNormalJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbynormalj/pseuds/abbynormalj) for being my historical go to person!
> 
> [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) and [TBazzSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri) for being the two best Betas!
> 
> [FoolOfABookWyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85) for being my Brain Mate and an amazing friend!
> 
> TW: A little bit of violence and panicky thoughts.

I hate the police station.

When I was younger, before Davy adopted me, I had a problem with authority. Specifically, I had a problem with people who threatened to sic the police on me if I didn’t behave. I remember a few not-so-friendly foster homes where I was seen as nothing more than a miniature rebel; A good for nothing tough guy, who would find himself behind bars sooner or later. 

Davy adopted me and drastically changed my path, but I still get annoyed whenever I come by here. The guys, they don’t see me as a respectable member of law enforcement (I suppose I’m not). Some of them look at me (a nervous, tough-looking vet) and see that angry kid who would use his fists before his words. 

I sometimes wonder if some are itching to arrest me too. 

But no… These are _Davy’s_ men. They wouldn’t dare touch me. Not without reason. 

One of them, a tall bulky-looking fellow named Hayes slaps my shoulder, giving me a rough shake. If I hadn’t just spent the last few days feeling unwell, I might have been able to shake it off easily. Instead, an icy grip takes hold of my chest and I jump away from him, hands ready to fight. 

“Woah! Woah! Take it easy! For God’s sake, boy!” Hayes holds his hands up, but the look on his face is furious. I shake my head, relaxing my position.

“S-sorry. I didn’t see you…”

“You better be sorry. Just because you’re the Commissioner’s kid, it doesn’t mean you can just come in here threatening people.”

I glare at him. I fucking hate this guy. One of those “rough em’ up to get info” type of cops. He’s also one of Davy’s top officers, a fact that he loves lording over everyone else. 

He’s also one of the officers who’s been more vocal about my return from the war. Demanding to know the details of my discharge and of my tour. Hayes served in Korea, and believes that a man didn’t serve for nothing if they didn’t fight the entire time. 

And me… well… I served the army for 5 years, my last year being spent in Vietnam. 

Hayes served 3 in Korea, but served in the military for 10. He loves to throw that back in my face… as if the more time you spent shooting a man’s face off _means_ something! Does it make you more worthwhile as a person? Does it make the nightmares and faces go away at night?

It fucking doesn’t…

Fuck that guy.

“I told you… I didn’t see you there, Hayes. It isn’t a good idea to sneak up on people like that.”

I step into Hayes’ space, my shoulders squared, chin jutting out. I really don’t want to fight this person. Fighting a cop is never a good idea, especially not at the station, but I’m not in the best mood right now, and maybe I do want to get some aggression out.

Someone pulls Hayes away from me, it’s McGregor, one of the kinder men on the force. McGregor’s one of Haye’s buddies, and has (on more than one occasion) had to pull the both of us apart. 

“Christ Hayes, do you always have to get in the kid’s face? One of these days, the Commissioner’s gonna catch you and have your head.”

Hayes yanks his arm away from McGregor, and gives me a final look of disgust.

“You may like playing hot shot detective while your pops and us do all the heavy lifting…”

My face heats up and I clench my jaw. I can see McGregor trying to pull Hayes away, but the man stands his ground.

He’s always trying to get under my skin, and for the most part, it works. He’s known me, for a long time. He’s picked me up a couple of times when I was younger, either because I’d ran away from a shitty foster family, was caught in the middle of a fight, or because (and I’m not proud of this) I’d shoplifted some food. 

The last time he’d brought me in, Davy Mage (rookie cop at the time) took a look at me and decided that --for some goddamn reason-- that he’d take me in and raise me right. 

Hayes never let go. Still sees me as he did back then.

Scruffy, angry, dirty… No promise of a future. 

“... but we all know that you’re no better than the deviants we arrest everyday.”

My hands curl up into fists and I inch my way closer and closer to him. I’m not even thinking at this point. All I can see is red, and Hayes’ stupid fucking face. 

“Wouldn’t be surprised to find you here by the end of the year.”

I grab his collar and push him against the wall, my forearm is pressing against his chest. I can be pretty fucking strong when I want to be. I know McGregor is trying to pull me off of him, but all I can feel is the rushing of blood in my ears, and Hayes panicking beneath my grip. 

“SIMON!”

I immediately push myself off of Hayes and turn to face Davy, who is marching up to me, with a furious look on his face. 

_Fuck_.

Hayes scrambles off the wall, gives me a dirty look, and quickly walks away, McGregor, with a more sympathetic expression, follows him. 

I feel very ashamed of myself. And the look on Davy’s face isn’t helping. He has a very calm demeanor, but his eyes are piercing down upon me. It’s the same look he would get whenever I’d come home with a note from school, or with a bad mark. 

It was the same look he gave me when I came back from the war with discharge papers, before my first tour was done. 

It’s Davy’s patented “you are better than _this_ , Simon!” He shakes his head and walks away. He doesn’t even have to say anything for me to follow, I just do.

No doubt, he’s gearing up for another one of his famous speeches, where he sits me down and talks about how hard he had to work to raise himself to a respectable position in society, and how he raised me to follow in that mold. He’ll tell me that he saved me from a life of street brawls and delinquency, only to find me naturally turning to that path once more. 

I’ve heard this speech before… not only while I was still in school but also when I came back home. I had trouble… _adjusting_ to being back home, and while Davy let me move back in with him for a few months, we rarely saw eye to eye. He wanted me to join the police force, and I wanted to be more independent. 

We reach his office, where Davy takes his place behind his desk. He steeples his hands beneath his chin and just stares at me. He's expecting me to say something, to explain myself. Normally, I would. I would already be sitting in front of him, head down, ashamed. I’m just too tired to go through this song and dance with him today. 

“Care to explain what happened, Simon?”

I look away from his face, and focus on a very interesting crack on the wall, close to the window. The blinds are drawn. Davy usually keeps them drawn, finding the outside light to be too distracting. 

“Why do you keep someone like Hayes on the force?”

I don’t know why I’ve chosen to ask this question, instead of just answering him. Davy frowns at me. Ah… there it is, the disappointment settling into his features. Davy’s got piercing brown eyes and right now, they are staring right into mine, as if making a mental list of all the ways I’ve failed him. 

“Officer Hayes is a fine member of the force. He is diligent, with a strong character. He isn’t the kind to back down easily from a confrontation. I need men like him by my side while I run this city. And do not divert the question, Simon!”

I flinch when he raises his voice. Davy points to the chair in front of him. I slowly sit down and face him. He’s still staring right at me, and it’s making me nervous. I used to be good at maintaining eye contact (you have to be, if you’re in the military), but I now find myself being unable to do so. I’m staring at him now, doing my best to keep my eyes locked on him, but my throat feels tight, and my heart starts beating wildly in my chest.

I’m worried that the walls will start closing in on me, that Davy’s face will be surrounded by murky grey water. 

“Let’s try this again…What reason could you possibly have for harassing one of my officers?”

I dig my palms into my eyes, trying to force my head to clear. This was not how the day was supposed to go. I just came here to get information on this case. And now, I’m fighting another episode, right in front of him. 

I sit up, and force my hands onto my lap, in an effort to keep my legs from bouncing up and down. 

“I… I just lost control. I don’t know why… I-I haven’t been s-sleeping w-ell, Sir.”

“That’s no excuse, Simon! I did not raise you to be a delinquent, threatening the police! I am supposed to be running a tight ship here, being tough on crimes, and here I have my own son being no better than those cast-offs screaming and parading outside!”

He’s still yelling, and I’m doing my best to just block him out. I flinch at the word _delinquent_. I’ve worked so fucking hard to be the son he’d always wanted. I went into the army; I fought against people who never did me any wrong… 

I… 

I let my friends die…

I let everyone down…

I had to come back from ‘Nam, because the very thought of holding another gun left me screaming for hours. 

And now… look at me…

Wasting away with bourbon and dead end cases. 

I take a deep breath… 

_Remember why you are here… You have a case worth pursuing!_

Davy continues his shouting, “You should be _helping_ me control these people! Not fighting against my best men! I expect more from you!” He jabs his finger onto the desk. 

And there it is… He’s still trying to get me to join the police force. It’s something that he’s been pressuring me to do, ever since I got back home. 

For Davy, there is no greater honor than maintaining law and order. He’s been on the force for as long as I could remember, rising through the ranks to finally reach the position of Commissioner. He’s working with local politicians to get the city of San Francisco to what he calls “a beacon of stability and perfection.” He recently worked with the Reagan campaign, citing his “tough on crime” stance as his personal mantra. 

He wants me to follow in his footsteps, and that’s just not me. I may have learned to respect authority and to not openly rebel against higher-ups, but I think I’m tired of being just another soldier. 

I also don’t trust myself to care for another team or squad again… not after…

Yeah... Best not to put too much trust in me. 

“Sir… I’ve told you… I… I’d rather work on my own. Make my own way.”

Davy waves a hand dismissively.

“Yes… yes… Your little side project.Tell me, Simon, do you honestly expect anybody to take you seriously if you behave like you did, today?”

I do my best not to roll my eyes. I hate when he refers to my business as a “side project”. I maintain my gaze on him and shake my head.

“No, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Make sure that it doesn’t.” He straightens up against his chair and shuffles some of his papers around. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

I clear my throat and lean closer to the desk. If I want Davy to take me seriously and to even consider this case I’m working on to be as important as I believe it to be, I need to be direct and confident.

“It has to do with a recent case I’m working on. I think there might be a serial killer in San Francisco.”

Davy stops shuffling his papers and turns back to me. His eyebrows pinch together. I know that look… I’ve got his attention. He starts to run his hand over the very light stubble on his face.

“That _does_ sound serious. What makes you think this?”

“Sir… there have been three murders, all in the Haight-Ashbury district, and all within three weeks of each oth-”

“Simon… you shouldn’t give these unfortunate killings much thought.” He interrupts me, jaw clenching. I think back to what both Penny and Agatha told me; That these murders were not being taken seriously. 

I don’t want to believe them. I still think that there is more to this than everyone is letting on, and I’m not ready to question Davy’s dedication to fighting crime and disorder. 

Still, I press further. “But… Sir… They were all killed in the same district.” 

Davy shoots out of his seat and wanders to a map he’s got on his wall. He sticks some thumbtacks on specific blocks and connects them with string. I can see from my seat, that he’s blocked off the area of the murders. 

He turns back to me, and points aggressively to the map. “In an area known for violent crimes! Sometimes, Simon, a spade is simply just a spade. There is no need to worry yourself and others with crazy theories.”

I stand up now and walk towards him. I square my shoulders to try to make myself look taller. I don’t plan on physically fighting him, but I need him to know that I won’t stand down on this. This is very important to me. Not only because Penny knows the victims involved (which puts her at a risk), but I also can’t shake away the anger in Ms. Wellbelove’s eyes when pleading with me to take the case. 

I wasn’t about to walk away from it.

“This isn’t a crazy theory! There is something going on here… More than just a coincidence.”

Davy frowns at me and narrows his eyes. “Is this why you’ve come to see me?”

“Yes. I’ve been asked to look into these murders. The information I have isn't enough to come up with a plan of action.”

He shakes his head and almost laughs. I hate when he does that. Acts condescending towards me. Yes, he’s my adoptive father, and yes, he’s taught me everything I know. I just wish he would trust me --and my instincts-- as much as he trusts the men on his team. 

My instincts are good. He himself has told me that on countless occasions. Even though _he’s_ looked down on my chosen career path, I have had other members of the police force asking for my take on cases. 

If his own squad can see and trust that I know what I’m talking about, what can’t he?

“Simon… you’re wasting your time…” 

I ignore him. I won’t back down. I came here for a reason, and I’m going to see this through. 

“Would it be possible for me to see the case files for the victims? I’d like to take a look at them to see if there are any angles I may be missing.”

Davy hums to himself and makes his way back to his desk. He settles down and crosses one leg over the other. He motions for me to sit down, and I do.

He sits there for a few minutes, hands poised beneath his chin. I’m here trying not to show just how anxious I’m feeling. 

I know this is a lot to ask of him, and considering his opinions on the matter, I wouldn’t blame him if he refused my request. 

“Simon… Now you _know_ I can’t just allow you to take police files out of the station. You are still a civilian”, he says in a low, almost whispering voice. Davy usually gets this way when he’s thinking up something, especially if it involves me. 

I scoff when he calls me a civilian. That label certainly doesn't stop him for letting me see crime scenes.

“Sir. I am a certified investigator.”

“Yes, but still a civilian. I can’t let you just take confidential information into your non-secure apartment. I would be putting myself on the line as well.”

I try not to laugh at him. He’s talking too calmly for me to drop this completely. He wants something from me. He always does. If Davy really wanted me to drop this case and move on, he would be far more insistent. He wouldn’t allow me to get a second word in. 

However, he’s still sitting quietly at his desk, hands steepled beneath his chin and leaning towards me, as if wanting to share a secret with me. 

He wants something, and as soon as his eyebrows quirk up, I know he’s about to ask me.

“Unless…”

Here it comes. I lean in closer and tilt my head, feigning confusion. 

”Sir…?”

“One of the victims, Sacha Petrenko, worked as a bartender at a club we’ve been looking into.”

I sit back. That damn club again! The Catacombs! What the hell could Davy want with this club. Why is it so important, and why are so many things connected to it. 

I make a mental note in my head to push investigating this club to top priority. But for now, I need to know what Davy wants from me, so I can get what I came here for.

“What about this club…?” I calmly ask him. 

Davy stands up again and walks over to his window. He opens the blinds slightly and gazes outside. He’s probably choosing his words very carefully, like he knows something, but isn’t sure if he wants to tell me or not. 

“We have reason to believe that _illicit_ affairs have been going on within the walls. The owner… he’s…. Well, let’s just say he’s caught the attention of the FBI, or rather, his _family_ has.”

“And what does any of this have to do with my current case?”

“With the time that you’ll be spending in that seedy place, I would like you to remain particularly _observant_. If you notice any less than savoury characters sneaking around, or if you hear of any suspicious activities, to let us know about them.”

I find myself scowling at him before he’s even had a chance to finish his request. What Davy’s implying, what he’s asking me to do, goes against _every_ fibre of my code of conduct. I pride myself on keeping my clients, as well as anyone implicated in the cases I work with, completely anonymous. I know how important it is to remain in the dark and unknown. 

My face is burning up. Some sweat forms in my back and my brain is screaming at me to take it easy and to remember to breathe. 

Stay… calm. 

Explain yourself...

“Sir, I’m not a spy. My client is trusting me with this case to remain confidential. My integrity is the one thing I’ve got going for me.”

He chuckles as he turns back towards me. 

“Don’t think of it as being a spy, Simon. Think of it as killing two birds with one stone. If these murders are indeed as connected as you say they are, would it not be best to involve the professionals with it?”

I don’t like that he’s got a point. I was already considering that the club was linked to these murders. I hate that he’s circling back to my case and pointing out the obvious connection.

I still hate this. I hate everything about this. I run my nails over the light fuzz at the top of my head. Do I sacrifice my integrity in exchange for inside information?

Call it what you want, but Davy is asking me to spy on a group of individuals who, as far as I know, have not done anything wrong.

But if Davy is asking _me_ specifically, I have to trust that there’s a reason. 

“Why not send someone undercover?”

“These people do not trust or respect authority. They will not let in an outsider into their circle. But you’ve already got an in… You’ve got your client. You’d be doing us a great favour. Now I am not asking you to do anything very different. We are _actively_ looking into the club as well as its majority owner. We need your help to keep this city and its citizens safe.”

I have a bad taste in my mouth as he talks, like the words he’s feeding me refuse to settle within me. They aren’t mixing well with everything he’s taught me growing up. 

I _am_ curious about this mysterious club owner that has Davy all concerned. The more I think about it, the more my suspicions rise about them. Penny doesn’t even know their name, and Agatha refused to talk about them during our meeting. 

What kind of owner of a hip jazz club wants to keep quiet all the time?

Unless they’re trying to hide something. 

“Alright… but _only_ if I happen to see or hear anything that concerns me.”

A bright smile passes over Davy’s face, and I wish it didn’t make me cringe as it did. Davy looks… almost too eager for me to say yes to his idea. 

“I was hoping you’d say yes! I am very proud of you, Simon. You may talk to Roberts. He will give you the files necessary.”

I furrow my brows a little, but nod at him. I stand up and give him a firm handshake (one of his first lessons --perfect your handshake, it’ll come in handy no matter what career you choose). 

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Oh.. one more thing, Simon.”

I’m about to step out the door, when I stop and turn to face him. 

What more does he want from me? 

“Yes?”

He gives me a smug little smile --another thing I fucking hate-- and quirks up his eyebrows.

“Try to keep your head and emotions in check. I wouldn’t want you to lose yourself because of any _unexpected_ surprises.”

_What the fuck does that even mean?_

What unexpected surprise is Davy expecting me to find when I dive deep into this case? He must know someone personally involved with this case. I’m wondering if it’s someone I came into contact with while working on my other cases. 

It’s very possible. I’ve met people from all walks of life in my line of work. 

It’s also very possible that I’ll run into someone from the military.

(That’s probably the worst case scenario, if I’m being honest with myself).

Regardless, I’m determined to not let this case get the best of me. I have to push through these episodes. I’m stronger than they are, I can move past them, and I can deal with anything that comes up. 

I square my shoulders and raise my head to meet Davy’s eyes. I’ll show him that I’m not that scared, angry kid he adopted seventeen years ago. 

“I appreciate the concern, Sir, but I can handle myself.”

Davy gives me a sly smile and a curt nod, dismissing me (as he usually does) (Davy isn’t one for extreme greetings) (not unless they’re political). 

I pick at my cuticles, as I make my way towards the evidence room. I’ve been here often enough to know exactly where to find it. 

I think about the conversation I just had. I’m not really surprised that Davy gave me hell for the fight with Hayes. He’s got a tight ship to run, and it doesn’t look good for his son to start brawls with his officers. 

My stomach is doing backflips and refuses to give me any peace. I should probably eat something, but I’m not feeling very hungry. I’m overthinking the request that Davy made me. I know he asked me for a reason, and my instincts are telling me to be wary of this club owner. But at the same time, my instincts are also telling me to not follow through with his demands.

I’ll think more about it, once I get home, and after looking over the official case papers. 

“You’re joking! Tell me this isn’t it?”

Hank Roberts shrugs at me, not knowing what else to tell me.

I’m staring at the pathetically light boxes that made up the three unsolved murder cases. 

_Three_ damn murder cases, all within two weeks of each other, and all they have to show for it, are a few documents about each of the victims as well as photos of the bodies and the crime scenes. 

Were they even sent to pathology? Was an autopsy done? 

“No, seriously, Roberts! Three people died on our streets, and this was all that was done? Have they gone to the morgue? Was anything dusted for prints? Witnesses?

He shrugs again, and I want to knock his damn teeth in. 

“They died in shitty neighborhoods, kid. We see this kind of thing every other week. It’s nothing new.”

He can’t be serious. Even I, as a private investigator, know that there are steps that need to be taken when dealing with criminal activity. Procedures exist for a reason! It’s so that, if possible, people could be brought to justice. 

What justice exists for the three people whose lives were cut short?

The truth hits me like a bucket of ice cold water. 

None…

I think back to Agatha Wellbelove’s angry brown eyes. How they sparked with passion and with a fire that was ready to burn the entire institution down. 

They need justice. They _deserve_ justice. 

I make a note to remember to talk to Davy about the awful way his police force has been handling murder cases. Perhaps this is why he didn’t think they were anything special to consider. If the details were being hidden from even him, no wonder he showed little to no concern for them. 

I need to be smart about this. If I go parading to Davy without proof or a solid case, he’ll throw my suspicions out the window without a second thought.

No, I need to follow this whole thing through, as if it were a typical case. I still think there is something odd about the mysterious club owner, and I’m definitely going to figure out what their deal is. But now, I’m thinking this case may be more involved than I originally thought. 

The fact that the police haven’t been properly investigating this case has me worried. If this goes all the way up to the police, I’ll have to be extra careful, especially with the information I plan on relaying back to Davy. If someone on his force is either behind the murders, or is working as an accomplice to them, it could be dangerous. 

I’ll have to do my best to avoid working directly with law enforcement, until I can be sure that no one on the force is directly tied to the case. 


	4. Ten Thousand Whisperin' and Nobody Listenin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After analyzing police case files, and working on his other cases, Simon spends the evening canvassing the mysterious Catacombs Jazz Club.
> 
> He ends up meeting new faces, some friendly, and some suspicious, before coming the the harsh conclusion that sometimes the darkness within leaks out when least expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:
> 
> [AbbyNormalJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbynormalj/pseuds/abbynormalj) for being my historical go to person!
> 
> [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) and [TBazzSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri) for being the two best Betas!
> 
> [FoolOfABookWyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85) for being my Brain Mate and an amazing friend!
> 
> TW: War flashbacks, PTSD, panic attacks, some gore and blood.

It takes a while for me to get back to my apartment. I could have taken several trips back and forth to collect each individual box, but I was already beyond fed up with being at the station, that I just wanted to go home. 

Carrying all three boxes at once was also not the best idea. I consider myself to be pretty strong, but to make the long journey home through steep hills and shifty traffic, would be a nearly impossible challenge. So, I decided to take the few files and bunches of notes in each box, and combine them all in one box and bring that home with me. Roberts tried to argue with me, but in the end, I don’t think he really cared what happened to the files, because he allowed me to take the files in a single box (provided that I keep them separated from each other). 

I’m home now, sifting through the notes and analyzing the photographs. I still can’t believe just how little actual work was done on these murders. It doesn’t make any sense to me. 

I pull out my red notebook and add some more notes from the police information. 

Monday, May 28th, 1967

Client #61: Agatha Wellbelove

General Notes:

  * Police notes were very sparse, as well as initial investigation into murders (Need to look into this)
  * No autopsies were done on the victims, no interviews with potential witnesses or family members were conducted.
  * No murder weapon has been found yet. (Knife? Dagger?)



Elspeth Jones: 

  * Murdered on April 1, 1967
  * Murdered approximately one block from her apartment building.
  * Lived with her two room-mates
  * Arrested several times for disorderly conduct and petty theft (question roommates about this), but was bailed out within a couple of days. 
  * Police have a full file on her, as well as anything she was ever involved in. 



Damon Jackson: 

  * Murdered on April 22nd, 1967
  * Like Jones, he was murdered approximately one block from his apartment
  * Lived with his wife and 5 year old son. 
  * Arrested several times for inciting a riot (question wife about this), was also bailed out within a couple of days of his arrest. 



Sacha Petrenko:

  * Murdered on May 13th, 1967
  * Lived with girlfriend
  * Murdered a block from his complexe.
  * Arrested for trespassing and for destruction of public property (question girlfriend about this), was also bailed out 



Common Threads:

  * All victims were murdered approximately a block from their apartment (The murdered knew where each victim lived and must have stalked them before murdering them)
  * They were all jailed at a certain point, but were bailed out by an anonymous source rather quickly.
  * All were murdered within 3 weeks of each other. 



The killer has an MO!!!!

  * Each victim was killed with a slash to the throat and several stab wounds to the abdomen. 
  * Each body was found with blunt force trauma to the head and bruises on their faces. No defensive wounds -- means each victim was taken by surprise and was assaulted before being murdered
  * Each victim was found with slashes to their chest. -- Espeth had one; Damon had two; Sacha had three.
  * There will be a fourth victim…
  * They were killed without hesitation. If the killer knew the victims, this could mean that there is a bigger picture to look at…



1) Talk to loved ones… Find out WHY specifically, everyone was arrested, and who the anonymous bailer was. 

2) Fourth victim is coming… NEED TO FIND THEM BEFORE KILLER DOES

  * Spend time at the club → get to know the regulars there. Question people (has anyone been recently arrested and bailed out? Who holds influence in their movement? Was there someone who disliked all three people, who could have it out for anyone else?) (THE OWNER... )
  * Look into potential dirty cops who would be working behind Davy’s back. 
  * Look into unsolved murders from before April → Killer could have killed someone before they honed their MO.



I slam my notebook closed and massage my eyes with my palms. I’ve just spent the last few hours going over each and every piece of information given to me. As expected, there wasn’t much for me to go over, yet there was enough information for me to come up with several leads to follow.

All three victims were arrested for public disturbances, they’ve all been fingerprinted and their addresses were on official police files. Anyone on the force could have access to those files. If not them, then someone they knew could obtain access to them. I think about how easy it was for me to gain access to these murder files. 

I flip open my book again and read over my notes. I like to review them a few times to keep them fresh in my mind. 

Each person was bailed out by an anonymous source. Obviously one of the important things for me to do would be to figure out who exactly this anonymous Samaritan was. It could be that maybe _they_ were somehow connected to the string of murders. It could also prove useful for me to track the next potential victims. I’d have to conduct interviews at the club, and to see if anyone’s been recently arrested and bailed out. 

What really concerns me, is the killer’s MO. These murders were clearly a message, from the markings on each of their torsos, as well as the consistent method of the killings. I’m no shrink, I know nothing about the way a murderer’s mind works, but the specific way the markings were done on each body, indicates that they were more than simple slashes. Added to the fact that they coincide with the order of the murders, it tells me that the murderer is leading to something. 

The only question is… to _what_?

Each victim presented with several bruises on their faces and (in the case of Damon Jackson, specifically) blunt force trauma to the head. The kills were quick and decisive, no amount of hesitancy to the slashes. 

I just… I fucking wish more work was done in the initial investigation. I can’t understand why Davy’s toeing the line of these killings being random and unrelated. The evidence here is clear to see. They are _serial_. There will be more victims, and possibly something more sinister, unless something is done. I’m hoping that I can meet up with Davy, and show him my notes. Hopefully then he’ll understand that these weren’t delinquents killed in freak accidents. These murders were deliberate. 

I need to find time this week to talk to the loved ones of the deceased, I need to know whether the arrests were at all related. I know I should not judge them based on their criminal activity, but in this case, I have to eliminate any other potential coincidences. 

I also need to work on my other two cases, still outstanding. I think I may take the day tomorrow to focus on the Bellamy case, and give my brain some time to think about other things. I’m never that good at focusing on one specific thing at time. It’s happened before where I become nearly obsessive with cases. When that happens, I can’t think about anything else, but closing the case. 

That’s why I’ve started taking on more cases at the same time. I need other work to fall back on, to keep myself on track, and to give myself a break from time to time. 

I stretch and glance over at my clock. It’s nearly 10:00. I didn’t even notice the time passing as quickly as it did. I must have spent more time on these notes than I thought. 

I’m feeling good… I think. Other than the confrontation with Hayes earlier today, I haven’t felt myself slipping into one of my episodes (I might have started to slip with Davy had I stayed longer).

After cooking myself a quick snack of scrambled eggs, I decide to get ready for bed. I settle myself in bed, and pull out my green notebook. I don’t have much that I want to write about, but at this point, I’ve made it a point to write at least something everyday (with the exception of days where my episodes become unbearable). 

Monday, May 28, 1967

  * Feeling myself again… Penny has been helping me out. 
  * Last few days were bad. Lots of faces and darkness. 
  * I’m alright today… Better than before. 
  * Worked on the Wellbelove case. 
  * Visited Davy at the station… Nearly caused a fight with jackass officer. (Slip up… lost control... ) He makes me lose control. ~~~~
  * ~~Had to make a deal with Davy~~
~~
  * Davy wants me to spy
  * I hate this
~~
  * ~~I hate this~~



Right… Ok… This isn’t going well. I can feel my heart beginning to speed up again. Sometimes the writing doesn’t help, and I hate myself all the more. 

Fuck… I hate that my brain is so fucking fucked up! That I can’t even write a simple journal entry without beginning to lose my shit. 

I toss my notebook on the floor and grab my bottle of whiskey. I unscrew the cap and take a long, desperate gulp. The golden liquid rushes down my throat and immediately fills my body in a warm, soothing embrace. The beat of my heart slows down, so I take another swing of the miracle drink. 

And another…

Nice… warm…

Like a campfire on a cold day… 

Like laying in front of a cozy fire, wrapped in a blanket….

One more…

Warm fingers wrap around my chest and run up and down, coaxing me to drift away into sleep. 

One more…

The thoughts of the day melt away, they can’t hurt me… They can’t touch me. 

One more…

I don’t feel the bottle in my grasp anymore. I can’t feel the cold of my apartment… I can’t even feel the fear in my chest…

All I feel is calm… and quiet….

And the dark pulls me underneath.

I find it difficult to get myself out of bed, when the sunlight hits my face. Normally, I’m up with the sun no matter how much I’ve drunk the night before. I groan and rub the sleep out of my eyes. I suppose, at 25 years old, that my body is starting to tell me to lay off the hooch. 

I groan and push myself up to a sitting position. My head hurts. I run a dry sticky tongue across the film on my teeth and feel downright disgusting. 

The clock on my nightstand tells me that it’s about 5 minutes past 9:00. Not ideal, but at least it’s still morning. 

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to put pressure on it and relieve the pounding in my head. Fuck… normally my hangovers aren’t this bad. How much did I even drink last night. I reach for the bottle to find that it’s pretty much empty…

_Well… shit… that explains it…_

I slink my way out of the sheets, and slowly pad my way out of the bed room. 

_Coffee… need some coffee._

My brain barely works under normal circumstances, but seeing as I’m still processing several shots of cheap whiskey, it’s a miracle I’m even able to stand straight. 

As I prepare the coffee, I make a mental list of things I need to do today, in my red notebook. 

1) Talk to Elspeth Jones’ roommate, and find out why she was arrested and if there are any clues as to who bailed her out. Did she have anyone who would have wanted her dead? Anyone connected to the movements she was involved with? (At this stage, I’m pretty much focusing on common names that pop up). Was there anything suspicious going on in Elspeth’s life? 

Maybe I should take a break from this case. I did think about it last night, and it’s already starting to take its toll on me…

~~1)Talk to Elspeth Jones’ roommate, and find out why she was arrested and if there are any clues as to who bailed her out. Did she have anyone who would have wanted her dead? Anyone connected to the movements she was involved with? (At this stage, I’m pretty much focusing on common names that pop up). Was there anything suspicious going on in Elspeth’s life?~~

  * Look into the policies for war widows receiving compensation… Library maybe? Veteran’s aide? 
  * Find information on the company -- Plymouth Insurance -- see if they’ve been withholding life insurance payments for other widows.
  * Talk to Penny, see if she knows any lawyer friends who work on cases like this. See if any of them can help. Have they seen cases like this before? Is this common practice amongst insurance companies?



I need to focus on my other two cases, and working on the lighter Bellamy case is a good break from this one. I figure if I can not only help her prove that she is losing out on money that is rightfully hers (and get a lawyer to support my findings and take her case to the courts), I should have her case resolved within a couple of days.

A knock comes at my door, while I’m drinking my coffee. 

“Simon! It’s Penny! You alive in there?”

I grab my coffee and open the door. Penny makes her way into my apartment and helps herself to a cup. 

“By all means, Penny! Come on in for some coffee.”

“You owe me so much more than coffee. Lucky I’m not asking you for your firstborn. How are you feeling?”

That was a loaded question. I hadn’t had time to clean up, so God only knows how much of a mess I looked like right now. 

“I’m alright.”

Penny quirks an eyebrow at me. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

“I had a little trouble sleeping last night, that’s all.”

“Mmhmm, and did you get help sleeping from Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, again?”

I shoot her a dirty look. Penny knows well enough not to bring up the methods I use to fall asleep. I snatch the coffee cup from her hand and place it down on the kitchen counter. 

“I was drinking that!” She yelps. 

“Low fucking blow, Penelope.”

“Look, I’m sorry, Simon. But I worry about you. This isn’t healthy.”

“I’m _fine_ , please drop it.”

Penny opens her mouth to protest, but stops immediately, and grabs back the cup of coffee. I lean back, against my kitchen counter and take a long, satisfying sip from my mug.

“Now did you come over to shit on my sleeping habits, or was there something else?”

“I do it because I care. But yes! You’ve got plans tonight!”

I cross my arms and give her a long stare. 

“Do I now? Nice of you to ask me beforehand.”

“I’m technically asking you now, aren’t I?”

I have to remind myself that I appreciate Penny’s friendship and that she’s been a great friend and an amazing person. And she is. But I get annoyed with her when she gets pushy like this. Making plans without telling me about them. 

I mean, to be fair to her, I probably would have found an excuse not to do anything tonight, and just mope around my apartment, busying myself over my cases. 

“What’s going on, Penelope?”

She takes a long sip and gives me a sly look from underneath her bright purple glasses (they’re a cat-eyed style). 

“You wanted me to help get you into The Catacombs, didn’t you?”

Well, fuck… Why didn’t she just lead with _that_? I straighten myself out and put my coffee mug back down. 

“Yes! I do! Are you going, tonight?”

“I was planning on it, yes. Met up with your client yesterday. She said that tonight would be a good night to bring you along.”

I frown, trying not to be insulted that my client and my best friend are plotting behind my back. It feels like a massive conflict of interest. Like I’m doing a case for a friend, or for personal reasons. 

I do ask Penny for her opinions on several cases, but I feel that because she knows my client, and that she knew all three victims, it’s become more personal for me. I have to remember to keep a cool head, and try not to involve Penny too much when it comes to this case. The last thing I want is for her to get hurt. 

“What time?”

“10 PM would be good. Can you meet on the corner of 18th and Diamond around that time? I’m going out to dinner, but I can meet you right after.”

I try not to laugh. If Penny were to catch me assuming that she’s going on a date, she’d probably chew my ear off. Penny doesn’t date (or she hasn’t dated anyone since I’ve known her). 

“I know what you’re thinking, Simon! And no, this isn’t a date!”

I raise my hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything, Penny!”

She playfully hits my stomach and I cough out a laugh. “I mean it! This is revolutionary business! And besides, I get the feeling that Shep can help us both.”

“ _Shep_ , is he?”

“You know, the fact that you’re insinuating any male person I’m having dinner with can be a date is very patriarchal, and frankly kinda sexist!”

Penny stabs her finger on my chest and I cough out some of the coffee I’d been drinking. She does have a point. I shouldn’t assume that this gentleman she’s having dinner with is a date. 

“Fine! Fine! I apologize. Yeah, I can meet you at 10.”

“Great! Be there and look presentable.”

“Excuse me? I’m always presentable!”

“No offence Simon, but you’ve got the whole…” she waves her hands over me, “Boy Scout look going on! Take it from me, the less you look like a square, the more people are willing to give you the time of day.”

I grunt and turn away from her. I hate this. People assume they know everything about me, just because of the way I look. What am I supposed to do to please these people? Get a long wig to blend in with those who think short hair is oppressive? 

Am I supposed to put on a pair of paisley patterned pants? Maybe glue some flowers on my head?

Whatever! I have some jeans and a plain t-shirt. That will have to do. If they decide that I’m a nark based on a fucking pair of jeans and a shirt, well then that’s their problem. 

I hear Penny sighing behind me. “Look, I’m sure you’ll be fine with some jeans and sneakers. They’re very open minded over there. They’re just… _protective_ of each other. And like I said last time, they’re hesitant of new people. I’m sure that once they see you with me, everything will be fine.”

I don’t respond to her. Instead I walk to my desk and write “18th and Diamond, 10PM” in my notebook. 

I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I worry that I’ll get more nervous and upset if I push anything, or start an argument with Penny. I plan on having an easier day today, and damn it, I’m gonna make sure it happens.

“It’s fine. Umm… d’you know any potential lawyers who are interested in helping me with a case?”

She takes a tentative sip of her coffee. “That depends, what’s the case?”

“War widow… Possibly being denied government aid and life insurance because her husband didn’t serve enough time overseas.”

Penny lets out a sound that I can only describe as a growl. 

“Goddamn bastards! Picking on a defenseless widow! I mean, this is what we get when we send people over there! Death, destruction, and misery for everyone back home! I’m sure Good Ol’ Uncle Sam was plenty happy when she sent her husband to his death! They don’t care about us! They just want cannon fodder for their ‘tough man’ war!”

I rub my eyes. I can feel a headache starting to form. Normally, I don’t mind listening to Penny rant about the injustices of our world. But today, I’m tired, and hungover, and it’s too damn early. I raise a hand to her. 

“Yes. It’s bullshit. Do you know someone who can help me?”

Penny stops shouting and thinks for a moment. She scrunches up her face and taps her finger on her chin. She paces back and forth, mumbling names to herself. Possibly making a mental list of people to ask. 

“I may know someone. He’s a D.A., but he knows a bunch of people who are working with our causes. I’m sure he could find someone who can help you. I can give you his information. Just tell him you’re a friend of mine, and he’ll happily help!”

Penny marches up to me and holds her hand out. I hand her my notebook and she writes down a phone number, as well as an address, of one Minos Kanaris.

“Thanks, Pen. I’ll give him a call.”

She smiles and heads towards my door. “Not a problem, Simon! I have to remind you of why I’m an important friend to keep around, don’t I?”

“You wound me, Penny. Who else knows how to make such delicious food?”

“If I didn’t know you were joking, I’d smack you for that sexist comment.”

“Love you too, Penny!”

Penny chuckles and heads out the door. “Don’t forget! 10 PM! 18th and Diamond!”

I wave her goodbye, as she closes the door. Once she’s gone, I take a deep breath and finish up my coffee. 

Today’s gonna be a long day. Here’s hoping I can make some kind of leeway, or that this impromptu visit to The Catacombs proves to be worth it. 

This was a stupid idea. 

I should have never agreed to this.

I’m standing on the corner of 18th and Diamond, waiting for Penny to come back from her _‘not a date, Simon, and it’s sexist of you to think so’_ date. I was able to find some time in between my other tasks today to pop into a goodwill store. I found some jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and was convinced to buy an old navy-blue fisherman’s cap. I figure this should do well enough. I don’t hate the cap, to be honest. I looked at myself in the mirror before I left, and I liked how it looked. 

So here I am, anxiously waiting for Penny to show up. I’m pacing back and forth, making a mess out of my cuticles, and messing with the cap on my head.

I should have known that today was going to be a long and tiring day, and that maybe a quiet night at home would have done me some good. 

After spending several hours of research, I managed to get some head-way with Penny’s DA friend. He also mentioned that he would gladly provide any future help to me if I should ever need it. 

I got home pretty late, and had barely enough time to grab some food and get ready to meet Penny. I should be annoyed if anything. I mean, I raced all the way over here to meet her, but now she’s now the one who’s late. I glance at my watch, it’s a quarter past 10. I tell myself that I’ll give Penny until half past, before I start to worry.

“Simon!”

I turn to see Penny waving at me and practically running to meet me. With her, is a tall, lanky black man wearing a leather jacket, crisp brown pants, and large coke-bottle glasses. His afro is peaking out from underneath the black beret he’s wearing. 

Penny’s wearing a loose-fitting purple bohemian shirt and blue denim jeans. She’s got a purple headband, with her thick, curly brown hair spilling over. She almost doesn’t look like herself. Penny always dresses in plain button down shirts and black pants. She stops just in front of me, waiting to see if I give her a hug or not (I appreciate that she waits for me to engage). I do. She smells like sage, and I find it oddly comforting. 

Her not-a-date date gives me a long look and nods at me. Penny waves him over and introduces us to each other.

“Simon, this is Shepard! He’s a PhD student at the university. Shepard, this is Simon! He’s a dear friend of mine!”

Shepard offers me a hesitant smile and holds out his hand. 

“Pleasure to meet you, friend.”

I grip his hand and give it a good shake, nodding along. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Penny links her arm with mine and leads me along. Shepard walks ahead of us, hands in his pockets. 

“How was the ‘not-a-date’?” I ask her. 

She elbows me in the ribs and I grunt. “We were talking about the struggle of being a part of a minority population in a world that wants to silence us and keep us down. Shep’s a smart guy. Gets along with pretty much everybody. He wants me to write for his independent paper.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“The club. He’s there often. Agatha told me that he’s good friends with the owner. But I only started really talking to him at a… umm” She stops short of her sentence. 

I stop walking, and pull Penny back. “A what...?”

Penny looks away and bites her lip. A telltale sign that she doesn’t want to tell me something. I frown at her and nudge her side. 

“A rally for the Black Panthers.”

My eyes widen. “Penny! He’s… Penny! They’re…”

“They’re community saviours, Simon! They carry weapons because the pigs keep targeting them for existing! They run education programs and soup kitchens for neighbourhoods in Oakland. They’re all for empowerment and independence.”

“That’s not the point! What if something happened?”

She gives me a cold-stone stare and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… You could have gotten hurt. What if it turned out to be violent?”

She frowns at me and walks closer to me. Her friend is already a ways ahead of us, thankfully missing this conversation. “Funny you should be so concerned about that. You do realize that the violence is brought about by the police? Or, did you already forget that one of your case victims was a Panther himself?”

I mentally hit myself. No, I hadn't forgotten. Damon Jackson, 30 years old… Loved and respected member of his community before being brutally murdered. A man known for his poetry and voice. 

And a friend of Penny’s.

I had let myself get swept up in fear and misunderstandings because my best friend was involved so intimately with this case. It was wrong...

I sheepishly lower my head and continue to play with my cuticles. 

“I didn’t forget… I… I just…”

Penny’s eyes become soft. She places her hands on my shoulders and gives them a little shake.

“Look… I don’t expect you to let go of your own prejudices in a day. But you need to at least try and not have such a strong reaction like that. You’re about to meet people from all walks of life and you can’t expect them to trust you if you’re giving them suspicious looks.”

I sigh and nod. I don’t know what came over me. This is why I don’t mix friends and business. I don’t like having Penny so closely tied to this world, this case. I should know by now, that Penelope Bunce marches to the beat of her own drum. If she decides she wants to participate or be involved, she will be. 

She doesn’t need anyone to protect her, and she isn’t afraid to remind you of that. 

Penny smiles and proceeds to lead me towards the club. It doesn’t take us very long to get there. It’s a very small building, one floor. A vertical sign hangs above the entrance, with the words “The Catacombs Jazz Club”, written in red. Small twinkling lights surround the writing, making them look like constellations of stars. A small marquee hangs on the wall, with a list of performers and upcoming shows. Tonight was supposed to be a show by a Carmela Vasco, but her name is crossed out, with the word “CANCELLED” across it.

Shepard’s talking to a guy at the club’s entrance. He looks to be some sort of bouncer from the look of it. He’s tall like Shepard, and lanky as well. He’s extremely pale, with very long thick auburn hair, a scruffy beard and a thick set of glasses. He turns to Penny and I, giving Penny a big hug and a wary glare to me. 

“Who’s the new guy?”

Penny smiles and ushers me forward. “Niall, this is Simon. He was asked to come here by Agatha.”

Niall looks at me, up and down. “You the P.I., aren’t ya?” He’s got a bit of a Boston Irish burr to his voice. But mixed with something else… I’m not catching it, exactly. 

“That what Agatha told you?”

He pulls something out of his pocket (it looks like a joint). He lights it and takes a long drag before answering me. 

“She told me that you’re lookin’ into who killed Sacha.”

“I am.”

He takes another drag from his joint. He blows the smoke out towards me and gestures in my direction. 

“You a pig?”

“Niall!”

Penny comes in between the two of us. That was probably for the best, because this Niall character was starting to get on my nerves. If Penny didn’t step in, either he or I would end up, starting something. Penny’s damn fierce, and a good person to have around when tensions rise. She’s got one hand on Niall’s chest, and another on my shoulder. I take a step back and calmly raise my hands up. Niall does the same and kicks some dirt on the ground.

“I gotta ask, Penelope! The fuzz don’t like people like us. And they especially don’t like the Boss Man.”

He looks up at me again. I should say something. Challenge him. But I don’t want to put Penny in a bad position since she’s the one vouching for me at this point. So, I remain quiet, and analyze the situation in front of me. I’ll step in if need be. 

“Simon is here to help. He isn’t here to rat anyone out.”

“Law enforcement’s all the same. Your kind likes to look down on folks like us.”

He makes a move towards me, but now Shepard’s placed himself beside Penny, also holding his hand out. 

“Drop it, Niall. If Penelope says he’s cool, then I believe her.” Shepard turns to me. “Penny says you’re no nark, and Aggie says you wanna solve Damon’s murder. You’re cool to me, friend.”

I nod a thanks to him, and shift my eyes towards Niall. He seems to have calmed down, and backed up away from Penny and Shepard. He steps away from the door and lets us pass through. Before I get a chance to pass him, he stops me with a hand on my chest. 

“Penny and Shep may trust you, friend”, he spits out the word _friend_ like it’s poison, bitter on his tongue, “But not all of us here are so welcoming to _strangers_ , especially those who can sell us out to the Feds.”

I push his hand away from me and stand up to match his height. He’s got these intense brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles all over his face. He isn’t very threatening-looking, and I feel like I could take him down if need be (I’d rather not, but you never know). I squint up at him. 

“I am here to solve a crime. One that your friend asked me to investigate. And as far as I know, I was the only one willing to give her the time of day.” I lean closer into his space and square my shoulders. “So, if you want my help, I suggest you shut up and let me do my job.”

Niall scoffs at me, but he turns back around and goes back to his joint. I shake my head and enter the club, hoping Penny and Shepard didn’t go too far. 

It’s dark inside --something I’m already not a fan of-- but there are a few dim lights, hanging from small lanterns on the walls. It’s a very small club, but it isn’t overly crowded, and the few tables inside are spaced out rather well. There are a few booths towards the back of the club, as well as a small space for people to dance. 

On the right, is the actual bar itself, lit by warm, almost comforting lights, with a wide selection of alcohol, and a rather interesting drink menu with options such as _Sinnerman_ and _Purple Haze_. 

To my left, I see a wide, open space, with more tables set up, and a stage at the end. Blue lights shine down on it as a single microphone stand waits for an accompanying singer. I notice a small band setting up with rhythm guitars, bass guitars, and a small drum set. I wonder if they were able to get a quick replacement for the cancelled show tonight.

As I make my way inside, few people stand out to me. There is a young woman with bright red hair, sitting on the lap of another woman with braided black hair. They are both wearing sandals, flowy white tops, and short-cut jeans, and they look… _happy_. Like they’re in their own small private world, away from the noise, and the darkness… Where it’s just them.

There is another woman, hanging out near the bar, wearing a long leather jacket, and black jeans. She’s eyeing the patrons in the club, looking wary of the people around her.

I glance at the booth, and notice a young, dark-skinned man sitting alone. He’s got dark brown hair that swoops over his eyes like those British pop stars everyone loves. He glances up at me and gives me a hard stare, like he’s trying to place me. His attention is redirected towards the person who’s just sat next to him. I hadn’t noticed him coming in, but Niall joins him at the booth. They’re laughing and playfully hitting each other. There’s something about the man that’s _familiar_ to me. I know him… I must know him… 

But… from where? 

“Simon! Over here!” Penny waves me over to a table near the stage. She’s sitting with Shepard, Agatha, and another young woman. Agatha’s got a large, lovely smile on her face, as she gets up from her seat to greet me. 

“Hello, Mr. Snow! How kind of you to join us!” Agatha is wearing a long, flowing blue and green paisley dress. Her long, shiny blond hair is nearly pin straight, and she’s wearing a crown of light-blue flowers. She reaches her hand out to me, and I take it. Agatha leads me to where the others are sitting, and points to the young woman I’m unfamiliar with. 

“Mr. Snow, this is my dear friend, Minty. Minty, this kind gentleman is here to help solve Elspeth’s murder.”

At this, the young woman’s green eyes widen. She looks like she’s about to start crying, but quickly bites her tongue. She’s got a round face, with cherub-like cheeks, and a small mouth. She’s wearing a beaded headband, where a mop of thick, curly hair is resting. Minty gets up from her seat and quickly makes her way to me. Agatha stops her before she gets too close. 

“Minty, dear, he doesn’t like people getting too close to him. Apologies, Mr. Snow, but Minty’s been a wreck ever since Elspeth died. They were… _awfully_ close. Elspeth was ready to move into Minty’s once her lease was up…”

Minty settles back, giving me some space. She gives me a slow handshake.

“Thank you, Mr. Snow, for listening to us. Sacha, and Damon… and _Elspeth_ , they meant the world to us. I’m… I’m just... “ She takes a deep, shaky breath, furiously wiping away at the fallen tears. “Thank you!”

I nervously nod. I try not to look as uncomfortable as I feel, but this is clearly something that is very painful for her.

“Your friends deserve justice. And please, call me Simon.” 

Minty looks away from me and to her clasped hands. She quietly goes back to her seat, and nurses the glass in front of her. Agatha gently steers me to an available seat beside Penny. She sits beside me. 

“Agatha! Is Mel alright? I thought she would be performing tonight.”

Agatha chews on her lip and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m afraid not, darlin’. Mel hasn’t been alright since Sacha died. Poor thing’s terrified of leaving her home.”

“Did… did she know the other victims?” I ask.

Agatha sighs and takes a sip from her Martini. “We all knew each other, in some way. Mel and Elspeth were also pretty close. Elspeth was a huge fan of Mel’s, always giving her performances great reviews. Mel’s been down ever since Elspeth died. Frankly, I’m pretty sure she would have still come had Boss Man not told her to stay home.”

Penny leans in closer, (as do I, I want to learn more about this ‘Boss Man’) “That doesn’t surprise me to be honest. How’s he dealing with all of this?”

Agatha fiddles with the beaded bracelets on her wrists, “As best as he can. He’s very sensitive, so obviously he blames himself. Considered even shutting down until the murders were solved, until we all convinced him not to.”

Penny hums and leans back on her chair. Someone comes by, and asks me for my order. Penny gives me a look as I order an Old Fashioned, but I ignore her. She wants me to blend in so badly, this is how I plan on doing it.

I’m about to ask Agatha another question about her boss, when the lights dim even more and the crowd begins to stir. 

Fuck… I don’t like this… 

I find it difficult to see anything around me. Even the stage has darkened down, with a single spotlight in front of a chair. 

I nervously check my surroundings, trying to will myself to remain calm.

_This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m in a club, with Penny and her friends._

But it’s so dark… and I can’t see...

It’s so dark… And so fucking hot…

_No! Stop! Not here! You’re in a club! There’s Penny, and Agatha, and Penny’s ‘not-a-date’_

Penny’s face dissolves away, as does Agatha’s, and Shepard’s… Even the girl, Minty. They’re all gone…

I’m gone… I’m not here anymore…

All I see now are the angry eyes and _faces..._

Faces… soldiers… floating in the water. 

I lose my breath. I’m stuck in place as empty eyes cast soulless glances my way. Dead, grey skin, surrounded by pools of red, brown, and black.

I can’t breathe… I need to hide… They’ll find me to... 

_No… no… fuck… keep it together… keep it together._

My chest tightens, sweat starts to form on my brow… No… No… This isn’t happening now. 

I think I hear someone whispering my name… 

Who is that? Do I know them?

I can’t… I’m gone…

I’m gone...


	5. Bang Bang, My Baby Shot Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon is pulled out of his recent "episode" by a familiar voice and smooth, relaxing music. While recovering, he recognizes the singer of the voice. This brings back long lost forgotten memories. 
> 
> Memories of a friend... 
> 
> A friend he has not spoken to, or heard from in nearly 7 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter means a lot to me. This was pretty much the scene that inspired the whole concept of my fic. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> Thanks to:
> 
> [AbbyNormalJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbynormalj/pseuds/abbynormalj) for being my historical go to person!
> 
> [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) and [TBazzSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri) for being the two best Betas!
> 
> [FoolOfABookWyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85) for being my Brain Mate and an amazing friend!
> 
> I have an important message at the end of the chapter, so stick around :)

I think I feel someone gripping my hands, while someone else rubs my shoulders. 

_What’s going on? I need to run… I need to get out of here…_

_RATTA-TAT-TAT! RATTA-TAT-TAT!_

The gunfire isn’t stopping… It’s getting louder and louder…

Then...

I hear something in the distance… 

Soothing… slow… almost like it’s…

Music?

That can’t be… there’s no music in the jungles of Vietnam… only gunfire and screams. 

But the music goes on… sorrowful piano notes and what I think is a saxophone wafting through the air, chasing away the screaming…

The guns slow down as well… Disappearing with the whispers in the wind. 

The faces start fading away… As does the swamp, and the blood soaked bodies floating in the water. 

I hear… singing… A man’s voice floats through the air, cutting through the humidity. I know this song… It’s from a hidden memory from another lifetime ago.

_My funny Valentine. Sweet, comic Valentine. You make me smile with my heart…_

He sounds so sad, yet so beautiful. The voice is velvety smooth, like a soft blanket, coaxing me to come inside, where it’s safe. I can feel it pulling me out, bringing me home… 

_Your looks are laughable. Unphotographable. Yet you’re my favourite work of art..._

I focus on the hand gripping mine. It’s soft, plump, with short fingers. I hear a person whispering in my ear. 

“Simon… you’re ok… Simon… Listen to my voice…”

It’s Penny… Right… I’m with Penny… and Agatha… and Shepard. I’m at this club, with a jazz performance. 

_Is your figure less than Greek? Is your mouth a little weak? When you open it to speak, are you smart?_

That voice… Why is it so comforting to me? Why am I feeling like this voice can save me from whatever demons still haunt me? 

I slowly open my eyes, and I’m met with Penny’s wide brown ones. We aren’t at our table anymore, we’re close to the bar, where the lights are brighter, and where less people have gathered. 

_Don’t change your hair for me. Not if you care for me. Stay little Valentine. Stay…_

I try to stand up, and lose my footing. Thankfully, Shepard’s right behind me, helping me sit up straight. 

“Easy there, man… You need to take a few seconds to come back to us.” He hands me a cold glass full of water (or, I’m hoping it’s water). “Drink this. It’ll keep you grounded.”

My sips start out slow, but as the cold liquid rushes down my throat, I’m suddenly so thirsty for more. I’m gulping the water down as fast as I can, not even stopping to breathe. Penny continues to rub my back. She’s asking me something, I know she is, but I’m too caught up in the music to pay attention to her. 

_Each day is Valentine’s Day._

It’s coming from deep within the club… From the stage we were just at. Before I… 

“Penny… What happened? Did I have another _episode?_ ”

She gives my hand a squeeze and a gentle pat. She turns towards Shepard, who’s looking at me sympathetically (fuck… not exactly the first impression I was trying to make). 

“You were a soldier, weren’t you…” Shepard doesn’t ask me, so much as point it out to me. He takes the now empty glass from my hands and passes it to the bartender, who refills it.

I slowly nod at him. There’s no point in trying to hide or deny it now. He’s seen one of my episodes, and anyone who’s ever met a vet in their life knows what these episodes mean. I look up at him and he’s nodding at me, holding out his hand. 

“Private Shepard Campbell.” I give him a small smile and shake his hand. 

“Private Simon Snow. You served?” 

“You don’t really get a choice when you look like me. Soon as the man decides he needs bodies, folks like me are sent to the front lines.”

I look away from him, focusing on Penny’s hand, still holding mine. She’s remained quiet this entire time. He continues talking. 

From how deep in there you looked, I didn’t think we could pull you out… How did you come back to us?”

“Th-th… um… m-music… It helps…”

I think Shepard nods, because he doesn’t ask any more questions and I don’t want to look at him right now. To be honest, what I really want to do is listen to the music some more. There’s been a long musical refrain, but the man has started singing again…

_Is your figure less than Greek? Is your mouth a little weak? When you open to speak, are you smart?_

I feel something when the voice hits me again… Is it… Peace, maybe? I feel oddly comforted by it, as if it could provide shelter in the storm, a life raft for when I’m drowning. There’s something else in the way he’s singing the words. They’re sorrowful but there’s something else there… something like fondness… maybe…

_But don’t change your hair for me. Not if you care for me. Stay little Valentine. Stay..._

God… his voice is so haunting… It’s practically rooting me right in place, keeping me from falling again and drowning.

The jazz singer is making me feel less afraid… less untethered, and more like… Hopeful?

_Each day is Valentine’s Day..._

There’s only one reason and one voice that had that power over me…

But it’s not… It _can’t_ be. 

The song ends and the crowd snaps their fingers as some sort of quiet applause.

Without really thinking about it, I get up from my seat and walk towards the stage. Penny tries to pull me back but I wave her off. 

“Simon… what…?”

“I know that voice… Who is that…?”

Shep comes up next to me, ready to provide support, should I lose my footing again. 

“That? That’s the owner of the club. He doesn’t go on stage normally, but because Mel is out and things have been weird around here, he decided to take the shift.”

I barely register what Shep’s saying to me. I’ve only got one thing on my mind. I’m trying to pull away from them, but they both keep me back. 

“Simon… Please take it easy. You were out for 15 minutes!” Penny says. She’s got a firm grip on my bicep, and I don’t want to risk yanking it away from her. Instead I place my hand over hers, and softly pry her off of me. 

“Penny… I’m alright. Can we go back to the others, please?”

She sighs, but she loosens her grip on me. Shep gives me a curt nod and follows us back to the others. 

It’s difficult to see the stage, on account of the crowd of people gathered around, but I can be determined if I want to be, and my bulky frame helps get me through crowds. I gently squeeze my way through narrow spaces, keeping my hand in Penny’s. She’s keeping me grounded as we navigate. 

Then… the singer starts to talk, and I freeze. 

“Thank you, friends. I think I speak for all of us here when I say how thankful I am that you have come to show your love.”

His voice… It’s smooth, like silk. And it’s got that proper cadence that it always had. When he used to tease me, and walk home with me, and help me with homework. 

It… it _can’t_ be…

“This will be my last song for tonight… About lost friends and lost loves.”

The music starts up again --slow, melodic, guitar riffs rippling through the air-- just as Penny and I squeeze through a spot and get a full view of the stage. 

I gasp and squeeze her hand. 

“Simon! What…?”

I stop in my tracks and just stare at him. He looks different… He’s thinner… and his hair is longer ( _much longer_ ). It’s hanging over his shoulder in a ponytail that reaches midway down his chest. Still, there are some strands framing his face, making the sharp edges stand out. 

He’s still got the cocky look on his face, his pouty lips pursing into a self-assured grin (like he used to give me whenever I’d say something obscene, or whenever someone in class said something stupid). 

_“I was five and he was six. We rode on horses made of sticks. He wore black and I wore white. He would always win the fight…”_

He looks up into the crowd and I see his face. 

Black hair.

Grey eyes. 

Copper skin shimmering under the dim stage lights. 

I know that face, better than I know my own anymore. 

_Baz…_

_“Bang, bang... He shot me down, bang, bang... I hit the ground, bang, bang... That awful sound, bang, bang... My baby shot me down”_

I stare up at him, and suddenly it’s like I’m eleven again, and starting school at one of these hoity-toity schools for boys. I see him at the end of the hallway. Tall, slender, and looking like the school was made just for him. 

We’re assigned as locker partners on the first day, and he’s such an asshole about it. Shoving me out the way to get his books, making comments on how messy my side is, or how much of a disaster I am, or how I’ll never make anything of myself because I can’t keep my homework in order. 

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch… Christ, I remember how even his _name_ sounded ridiculous. He lived up the that pretentious name as he taunted me every fucking day. Smirking whenever I’d mess up in class, or couldn’t find the homework I’d completed. One time, the bastard even pushed me down the stairs! 

It didn’t help that Davy kept telling me to keep an eye out for him. That his kind loved to look down on hard working Americans like us. That him and his lot would never know what it was like to fight and die for your country and your beliefs. 

_“Seasons came and changed the time. When I grew up, I called him mine. He would always laugh and say ‘Remember when we used to play?’”_

Things started to change when we turned fourteen. Baz had a tendency to always get me in trouble. Whether it be catching me copying my homework off of another student, getting pulled into a fight, or even causing me to arrive late to class (by changing the lock on our locker, the dick). Just _once_ , I wanted to catch him doing something against the rules. Just once, I wanted _him_ to get into trouble and have _his_ father look down at him in constant disappointment. 

I wanted _perfect fucking Baz Pitch_ to know what it was like to be a damn loser. 

So I started to follow him around, including to and from his soccer games. I’ll never admit to anyone, but I did enjoy watching Baz play for our school. The guy was fucking ruthless. Strong and fast, and downright _powerful!_

I remember the day things changed between us. I noticed some of the older kids following him. They cornered him in the locker room and started taunting him, calling him a _Commie_. Davy had told me that someone in his family was taken into questioning by the FBI... But I didn’t think anyone else knew… 

He stood tall and strong, ignoring the taunts and going about his business. 

They circled him, closer and closer… Like a pack of wolves teasing their prey. 

I reacted as soon as the first punch was thrown. I don’t remember what was going through my head only that the thought of someone else _touching_ him, _hurting_ him, was enough for me to lose my mind. 

_“Bang, bang... I shot you down, bang, bang... You hit the ground, bang, bang... That awful sound, bang, bang... I used to shoot you down.”_

We started to spend more time together after that day. It started out small, Baz helped me to organize my notes and my side of the locker. That led to him helping me with homework, and teaching me a system of note-taking that worked for me (and still does). 

I stuck by his side, and other kids would leave him alone. No one ever called him Commie to his face again, not while I was there with him. 

It wasn’t just the time we spent together at school that changed for us, but we started spending time together after school as well. I didn’t like going home right after school. Davy was always too busy working to give me much attention, and home was pretty lonely for me. I think it was for Baz as well, because soon after the soccer incident, he started inviting me over to his place. 

It wasn’t a big deal at first. He asked me if I wanted to practice soccer drills with him in his massive yard. Those soccer drills would come with peanut butter and banana sandwiches from his stepmother, and a happy little toddler chasing us with the ball. 

That would lead to me staying over for supper. One night, turned into two, and then three. It didn’t take long for me to practically live at the Grimm’s place. If Baz’s parents minded, they never said anything to me, and Baz was insistent that I keep coming over. Looking back on it now, I think we were two very lonely kids who just needed a friend in the world. I was happy there, with Baz. It felt good knowing that I had a place to go whenever I needed a warm meal or shelter, or whenever I felt lonely or sad. 

The closer we got, the more Baz opened up to me. He told me about how his mother died. He wouldn’t say much about the details, but he did tell me that some lunatic had barged into their home. She died protecting him. I remember wanting to keep him even more safe after that. Wanting to make sure nothing ever touched or hurt him ever again. I still carry that need to protect people with me in my line of work. I have Baz to thank for that...

He told me how his Aunt Fiona practically raised him when his father couldn’t deal. His Aunt Fiona was the person who was brought in by the FBI, suspected of being a Communist. Baz didn’t like to talk about her much… Only that she was forced to move to Canada.

He did tell me that she would get him records of Chuck Berry and Little Richard. His favourite recording artist was Buddy Holly. I remember a phase he went through where he would style his hair like James Dean and wear glasses just like Buddy Holly.

As I stare up at him, singing, I can’t help but think of that boy, sitting in his massive bedroom, records scattered all around him, giving me a glare as I teased him about his new look. 

“Oh, and what do you think is good music, Snow?” He always called me by my last name (I fucking hated it). 

“Davy always listens to Sinatra… or Dean Martin…”

Baz had laughed at me, telling me that the days of Sinatra and Martin were going away. Baz liked the new “rock n’ roll” music that his aunt had introduced him to. 

Valens, Berry, Holly… _Johnny Cash._

As for me… I liked the classics. 

Sinatra, Martin, Williams...

It was a running joke we had. Baz would make it his duty to give me a musical education. I liked the way his grey eyes would light up as he spoke about the “rock and roll back beat” and how folks like Little Richard, and Chuck Berry were changing the game of music. 

I had brought over a record for him to play, one day (we always met at his place, never mine) (Davy made it clear that Baz was not welcomed in our home). It was one of my favourite Sinatra records. As we listened, I kept finding myself looking over to him, and how his hair would sometimes fall over his glasses. He would bob his head to the music, considering it, chewing the melodies over in his mind. 

It was a side of Baz that I had never seen before. A softer side… When he was with the music, his hard features wouldn’t seem as remote to me. It felt _nice_ , having him there close to me, where I could keep my eye on him and make sure no one was hurting him, or making him feel alone. It felt good, knowing that no one else got to see this side of him.

The record played and we lay down in front of his fireplace, shoulder to shoulder, listening to Frankie Blue Eyes crooning about his...

_Funny Valentine…_

_“Music played and people sang. Just for me the church bells rang…”_

He looks so sad. Like the last seven years had done a number on him. Like he’d loved and lost a million times in a million different ways. 

But he’s still Baz. 

He’s older, he’s sadder… He’s more far away…

But he’s still Baz. 

I want to reach out to him, ask him what’s happened to him during the last decade. 

I want to apologize…

That’s what I want to do more than anything. 

With Baz, I felt like I could be myself without any expectations. Baz knew me… the _real_ me. He was the one person I was never afraid to be myself around. With him, I was more than just, Davy’s kid. 

And Baz listened. He listened to everything I said. 

That’s why it hurt so much when he refused to listen to the one thing that mattered the most to me...

It was the senior prom, and we were at this overly fancy country club (that Baz’s father was a member of --go figure). Baz and I were sitting outside and just taking a break from all the dancing going on. Neither one of us had dates. I was far too awkward to land a date with anyone, and Baz… Baz just wasn’t interested. Sure he could have gotten a gal on his arm if he wanted to, but he just didn’t want one. 

We were there, just the two of us lingering around, and we started talking about our plans after graduation. 

I always knew my plan… I would join the military. It was what Davy wanted and what was expected of me. 

That wasn’t the first time we’d talked about it, but we’d eventually drop the subject and move on. Baz was against going into the military. He thought it was stupid to lay down your life for a country that would so easily brand you as traitor and Communist if you so much as thought for yourself. 

I felt it was my duty as an American to fight for my country, should my country call for me. Baz scoffed at that. _His_ family never fought in any war. _He_ grew up amongst luxury and safety. Never worrying about what could happen tomorrow. 

I was so fucking angry at him that night. He was being his typical stubborn, arrogant self, and shot down every reason I gave for wanting to enlist. I thought that if anyone would understand why I had to do this, it would be Baz. Instead he threw his own opinions at me. Telling me that I was better than going off to war! What did he know!? He would never have to experience that! He already had the world at his feet. 

What was I supposed to do? _Not_ join the army, like some sort of _coward_? How would Davy feel about that? The man gave me everything when I had nothing to my name, of course I would do this one thing for him. 

Baz didn’t understand… So we fought. 

The fight started on Prom and lasted well up until the day before our graduation ceremony. Baz had gotten accepted into UC Berkeley, and I had gotten back from officially enlisting. 

That was the worst fight we ever had. We were just shouting and shouting, saying things that neither one of us meant, because we were both too stubborn to shut up for a moment and listen. 

He turned to me, fury in his eyes and spat out “When will you think for yourself, instead of blindly following that fraud of a man you call _Father_!”

I saw red… Baz had never gone after my loyalty to Davy before. That was something we did not discuss. I never discussed his Aunt, he never discussed Davy…

Baz crossed a line, and so did I…

“Better to follow a man like Davy than a damn Commie.”

The look on Baz’s face was one that I will never forget. How he went from shock, to sadness, to anger, and finally closed off… Back to the angry, cold boy I met when we were eleven. With a cruel indifference, he told me to leave. 

“Baz…”

“Leave… before I call someone to _throw_ you out…”

He turned away from me. I stood there for a few seconds before finally turning away. Before leaving his bedroom, I gave him one last look, and the mask he had on, cracked. The last thing I saw were the tears in his droopy, storm-grey eyes. 

_“Now he’s gone, I don’t know why. Til this day sometimes I cry. He didn’t even say goodbye. He didn’t take the time to lie…”_

He was heartbroken. 

So I ran, and I refused to think about him. 

I didn’t think about him as I got on the bus to camp. 

I didn’t think about him as I trained for months under grueling conditions.

I didn’t think about him when I was sent to Vietnam to stop the spread of Communism and liberate the people. 

I only thought about him once… 

While laying in the grey, black, swamp, surrounded by my fallen unit, waiting for a good time to move and escape. 

Amidst blood and gore and death, I thought of him, and his broken grey eyes, betraying the mask he kept on his face as he told me to leave. 

I survived. 

I made it home. 

And I locked him away again. 

_“Bang, bang... He shot me down, bang, bang... I hit the ground, bang, bang! That awful, sound, bang, bang... My baby… shot me down…”_

He’s here… now… 

I stare up at him, willing him to turn his head and see me. The crowd whistles and gently claps at him. Baz’s gaze passes over them and he gives them a small, shy smile and a polite nod of his head. 

“Thank you… please enjoy the rest of the night…”

He slowly slides off of the chair and gives the crowd one final look through. He turns to my direction and stops. His grey eyes find mine and I swear I hear him gasp. One of the band members gently grabs his arm and hands him a sturdy-looking cane. He smiles at them, but tries to find me again as he’s helped off of the stage. 

I keep staring, long after he’s gone. 

What happened to him? 

Why does he need help to walk? 

Did something happen to him?

Did someone hurt him?

Penny’s tugging at my arm, trying to get my attention. I had forgotten she was even there with me. She’s looking at me with deep concern. I give her a small smile, letting her know that everything is ok.

“Simon… you’re crying…” 

I hadn’t even realized. I touch my face and feel the wet, salty tear tracks. The crowd is dispersing, going back to their tables and booths. Penny keeps holding my hand and rubbing my back. Shep ran off as soon as Baz left the stage. We don’t say anything for a few minutes. I finally turn to her and nod. 

“Yeah… I am…” 

She doesn’t make a move to walk away, she just stays there next to me. I know she’ll want an explanation for all this, and I do plan on giving her one. But right now, I think I still need to process everything that’s happened.

Baz is here...

Baz is the mysterious owner of The Catacombs. 

The man I’ve been suspecting had some sort of involvement with the murders. 

But… it _can’t_ be… 

The Baz I knew seven years ago would never...

“You ok? Do you wanna le-”

“Penelope?” 

Before she can finish her thought, Shepard calls her. We both turn around to see Shepard standing next to Baz... 

_Baz…_

He looks like he’s arguing with Shepard, before moving towards us, using his cane for support. He’s wearing a purple shirt, tucked into a high-waisted pair of velvet black pants. He’s also wearing a deep red velvet blazer that reaches the back of his knees. 

I want to laugh at him --he’s still as obsessed with fashion as he always was-- but I can’t do anything except just look at him. I hadn’t realized just how much I’ve missed him. How much I’ve missed having the best friend I grew up with. 

Penny stills next to me, ready to defend if need be. I give her hands a pat. 

Baz reaches us and stands still in front of me for a few moments. I can hear Shepard introducing us to each other, but we don’t need any introductions. He finally smiles. 

“Simon…” he says.

“Baz...” 

And he pulls me into a hug… 

And for the first time, in a long time… 

I can breathe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this fic is gonna go on a sort-of break for The Countdown and the Holidays. 
> 
> There are a lot of events and fics at the moment, and I need a few weeks to write the next part of this fic. I have roughly two chapters right now, but I'd like to have a few more written before posting again. 
> 
> I will be back during the week of January 11th. 
> 
> Yes yes... get angry that I'm leaving JUST as Baz shows up... I'M SORRY! xD


	6. Life Flows On Within You and Without You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK! I know I was supposed to have this posted last week... and I am so, so, SOOOOO sorry!
> 
> I blame a mix of mental health issues, hating every version of this chapter that I wrote (and I wrote like 2-3 different beginnings, hating them all), and writing an exchange fic that was supposed to be like VERY short, but ended up being an 8 chapter fic of over 25K words...
> 
> BUT... BUT... It is here, and it is DONE, and I have a much clearer version of where this story is going. Updates aren't gonna be super quick though, because I had to rework my pacing and my plot. 
> 
> [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) and [TBazzSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri) for being the two best Betas! I love you both so flipping much. 
> 
> Special shout out to the amazing a beautiful people who were shouting out my fic on Tumblr... Omg, I was crying and super emotional this week from the love and GAWSH...
> 
> ALSO, omg... check out [THIS ART](https://xivz.tumblr.com/post/640755688732344320/read-on-ao3) by the amazing [XIVZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz)
> 
> ANYWAYS... Enjoy the update! :D

It’s been a fucking night. 

I walked Penny home not too long ago, and I’m stuck just staring at my door frame. I’ve got so much in my mind that needs to be processed, but I don’t know where to even begin. I slowly open my front door, but I take a few seconds to slam my shoulder against my door frame. I know it seems a bit crazy to do this, but I swear it helps to refocus my thoughts. Those who will judge have obviously never done it before. 

I should get myself to bed, but I’m far too wired to go to sleep. My mind is too full. I need to write all of this down somewhere. 

My white book. 

It’s the book where I keep _him_ safe and tucked away. But after today, I can’t keep him hidden anymore. He’s here, a few bus rides away, in a cozy little jazz club, and in the centre of this massive case. 

Baz… 

I find my notebook in my bedroom. I had expected to find it underneath piles of newspapers and clothes, but it was on my bedside, right next to my green and black books. I hesitate before opening it. I think it’s been months since I last wrote in here. I don’t write in this book very often. 

Opening the notebook, I see how wrong I am. The last entry was from about a week ago, May 20th, 1967. I never mention him by name, but he’s there, written as _Buddy Holly_ (I always picture him with his Buddy Holly glasses, even if he’s no longer wearing them). 

I read the passages in my book as I make my way back to my office area. My apartment feels colder and quieter than normal. I don’t know why, but the loneliness here is hitting me harder right now. I know that I could fix it by calling Penny. She always comes right over and stays with me if I need someone. But I won’t bother her for this. I already hate being something she has to worry about. 

I get a glass of water and sit down, tracing my fingers over the lines of the book. I pick up a pen and begin to write.

Tuesday, May 30, 1967

His name is Baz.  
Full name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.  
He was my best friend.  
And for the last 7 years I refused to take him out of the tiny box I kept him. Thinking about him, and how our friendship ended was just too painful for me to bear.  
But he’s here, back in San Francisco. We’re back to where we started.  
I saw him.  
I hugged him.  
He was real… Not a figment of my imagination.  
Looking back in the passages of this book, I don’t think I ever fully locked his memory away.  
Seeing him today, his smile, his eyes.  
He looked so different, but it was like the last 7 years didn’t truly keep us apart.  
He’s always been with me, even though I refused to admit it to myself.  
No matter where I went… he was there.  
He was with me on the bus.  
He was with me in camp.  
He was with me as the bullets fell upon my battalion.  
And as I waited to live or die…  
Vietnam was an endless night of pain and noise and blood.  
I lost a part of myself back there. In the swamp, with my fallen friends. I feel like I’m only half the person I used to be, and I lose a bit of myself with every episode.  
When I was there, I let myself slip away.  
When I felt myself slipping too far, I allowed him to come back to me.  
With his Buddy Holly glasses,  
And his soft velvety voice, singing “Love Me Tender”  
The fact that none of the violence in Vietnam will ever touch him.  
That nothing can hurt him…  
Well… except me.  
That Baz Pitch is ALIVE.  
And that I have a chance to see him again and ask for his forgiveness.

I close the notebook and take a deep breath. I realize that I’m completely hunched over my notebook. My shoulders are tucked in close to my chest, and my first clenched tight around the pen. Slowly, I lower my shoulders, then open up my hands, and finally lift my head up. I take another deep breath and go to run my hand through my hair. I brush off the hat (I forgot I was even wearing the thing), and lean my head back. 

I rub the back of my neck and stretch out. I hear some of my joints popping and sigh in relief. 

I read the last sentence in my journal once more and shake my head. Well, I made it back, in one piece. All I have of my tour are the memories and the episodes (which, if I’m being honest, isn’t as bad as losing an arm or a leg). 

I didn’t go see him once I came back. I didn’t look him up, or go see his parents. I don’t like to think about the first months being back home. I remember a lot of darkness and nightmares. I know that I was staying with Davy, who between ignoring that something was wrong, tried to convince me to occupy my bad thoughts with hard work. His solution was to put me to tasks around the house.

So between the screaming, and the moments of just staring at the walls, I did some repairs around the house. I found that having a glass or two of Davy’s Tennessee whiskey before sleeping would improve my chances of not only having a good night’s sleep, but would keep the ghosts in Vietnam instead of in my dreams. 

Davy never found out about the drinking. Or if he did, he never addressed it. 

Once I could sleep and keep my demons at bay, I started keeping a strict schedule.

Waking up at the same time every day. 

Breakfast. Eggs and toast. Same food, same time. 

Housekeeping chores until lunch and then tasks set for me by Davy until he came home. 

Supper was on my own as well, as Davy always seemed to have something going on. 

I’d end with journaling, my whiskey, and then bed. 

I still didn’t go see Baz. I still didn’t go see his parents. I could continue to lie to myself and try to convince myself that he just didn’t enter my thoughts, but judging from the book, Baz was always a presence in my mind.

I just refused to admit that.

I refused to risk finding him, and reopening all those cans of worms. Especially considering I was coming back as half a person myself. 

I shouldn’t be surprised that Baz is the owner of a hip music club. He was always leaps and bounds ahead of us all. Baz was the type of person who made waves in the water. He made impressions, everywhere he went. 

I remember we had to do a presentation during history class. Baz did his (on Ancient Rome) completely in Latin! It honestly took a lot of gall for him to do that, especially since he was already on the teacher’s bad side. When the teacher tried to fail him, he challenged him to find an incorrect fact in his paper or prove that his use of Latin was problematic. 

The teacher eventually relented. Baz was untouchable for the remainder of the year. 

Baz was unforgettable. 

What should surprise me is that he stayed here, in San Francisco. A guy like Baz, you’d find traipsing around the world. A guy like Baz should be found in London, charming the lights out of an up and coming model. 

There was so much I wanted to ask him tonight. 

_Why was he still here? How was he? Did he still talk to his parents? Did he go off travelling the world like we all thought he would? What made him come back to San Francisco? How did he come about owning this jazz club? Was he seeing anyone?_

A sudden spasm of anger clutches my chest at the thought. I dismiss it as jealousy. I wish I could have a normal healthy life and the chance to date and be in a relationship. Instead, I’m stuck in what feels like an endless loop… I’m living in a state of uncertainty and with every second that passes, I edge closer to my next episode. And with every episode, I edge closer to being unable to bounce back.

Baz and I didn’t get time to talk after that hug. We were quickly ushered to our seats, where Penny gave us the third degree. Agatha kept giving me curious side looks.

I wasn’t keen on discussing my past with either of them. Instead, we focused on the case. From what I could gather from our short interaction, Baz was very popular as a boss amongst his employees. Both Agatha and Shepard (Is he even an employee? What’s his role in all this?) were quick to come to his defense when I mentioned questioning him. 

It warmed my heart for about a split second, before I remembered my purpose for being there tonight. 

We agreed that I would spend the next week coming to the bar and interviewing people who would show up and see if any suspicious activity had been going on. What I kept to myself was that I would be asking if anyone had been recently arrested and bailed out. That was my only strong connection and lead. I figured that I could get a good idea of who would be at risk of being victim number four. 

I noticed that Baz looked more and more uncomfortable as we talked about the victims and the case itself. I think at one point, he all but entirely spaced out of the conversation. He grew silent, and his eyes were distant, and unfocused. I noticed he was also fidgeting with the sleeves of his blazer. What was especially shocking was the way his face lost its color. I was worried that he was about to lose consciousness, when Shepard brought him back to Earth and Agatha asked him if he needed some air. 

Not at all like the Baz I knew from years ago. 

There was definitely something going on with him tonight. As much as I was happy to see him again, I needed to stay on my toes around him. I can’t let my past feelings cloud my judgement. As much as I would hate to do it, I need to be able to bring Baz to justice if he’s involved with these murders. 

It hits me at once…

Davy _knew._

That’s what his warning was about when I went to go see him at the station. He knew that Baz was still in town, and that he was the owner of the Catacombs. 

I don’t realize just how hard I’m squeezing the notebook, until I feel the pages crumple under my grasp. I drop the book like a hot potato. 

Considering just how much Davy disliked Baz and his family while I was growing, it should come as no surprise that he’s so adamant about getting intel on the club and on Baz himself. Davy was overjoyed when Baz’s aunt was forced to flee the country all those years ago. Davy’s had it out for Baz’s family for the longest time. He called them pompous old money, keeping it within their rich circle and refusing to invest it back into the American economy. 

Davy’s always believed in pulling yourself up by your bootstraps to make an honest buck. He had no patience on those who coasted on inheritance funds. 

And to him, the Pitches and Grimms were the biggest perpetrators of this crime. 

Makes sense that he would want to bring Baz’s club down. If Baz obtained this club through his family’s wealth, and was using it to conduct illegal activities, it would prove that Davy was right about Baz all along. 

My face feels hot and I’m still squeezing my fists shut. Thinking about Davy going after Baz (after I just found him), and _using_ me for it, makes my skin feel all static-like and itchy. I don’t like this… 

More than anything, I hate that, once more, Davy is expecting me to choose between him and Baz (like he did when I was teenager). 

I’m pacing around my apartment, thinking about how the things I uncover might give Davy ammunition to go after Baz. How he can use me, and what I discover to bring Baz down, even if he’s not the perp himself. I think about Davy storming into Baz’s club and arresting him. I picture the Feds coming in as well, calling him _Commie_ , just like those bullies did when we were 14. 

I picture them hauling him away. 

_Fucking… ow!_

I punched the wall. 

I didn’t even realize that I was about to do it. 

All I have to do is _think_ about someone taking Baz away…

_Hurting him…_

I shake out my fist. I don’t think I broke anything. I open and close my hand a few times and wiggle my fingers. They hurt like a mother fucker, but definitely not broken. 

I lean my forehead against the wall (which, thankfully, does not have a hole) (can’t imagine my landlord being too thrilled about that). 

I need to get my head on straight. I’ve only had one encounter with Baz (granted, it was a fucking shock), and I’ve managed to punch the wall. 

I make a list in my head of what to do and how to go about this case, now that it looks like I’ll be spending more time around Baz.

  * Stop thinking about Baz all the time! I am interviewing him as a potential suspect. I need to keep distance between us. At least until this case is done and solved. I cannot keep a clear and unbiased head while thinking about Baz all the time. 
  * No punching walls… Punching walls isn’t good.
  * Keep a steady supply of bourbon in the apartment. Something tells me that I’ll be needing it.
  * _Minimal_ information for Davy. At least, until I know why he was so insistent that I spy on The Catacombs (and why he neglected to tell me that Baz owned the club).



I stifle a yawn. I slowly make my way to bed. When I get beneath the covers, I think about Baz singing on stage again. 

He was singing _My Funny Valentine_ wasn’t he? I wonder if he remembers that was one of my favourite songs. Did he remember the time we lay down side by side and listened to Frank Sinatra sing low and longing. As my eyes close I think about his hair framing his face and how the lights reflected off of his eyes, making them sparkle almost silver out into the crowd. 

Thinking about Baz singing, his voice winding through the air and wrapping around me, is once again providing me the comfort I need to lull myself into a peaceful sleep. 

For tonight, he replaces the demons in my mind. Empty, soulless eyes are replaced by sparkling grey ones. The screams and gunshots are replaced by dulcet singing. 

The memory of Baz pulls me into a deep, dreamless slumber.

I spent the day travelling around the neighbourhood, meeting with the families of the victims. I was only able to visit two homes today. Both interviews took a lot longer than I had expected. Most of the time was spent trying to convince the interviewees that I wanted to help them. 

I’ve been home for several hours now, trying to make the most of whatever time I have left in the day before I need to head over to The Catacombs. I’ve eaten, and showered, and changed into a “Penny-approved” outfit (which is beyond ridiculous, I mean I’ve seen how some people were dressed last night, I’m not that bad). 

Now that I’ve got nothing left to do, I pick up my notebook and look over the notes I took today.

Wednesday, May 31st, 1967

Victim #1 Elspeth Jones : Roommates Diedre and Reyna were hesitant to talk to me at first. Convinced them by telling them that I was friends with Penny. (Reyna knows Penny from school and has been to several of her talks and poetry readings)  
Diedre was with Elspeth on the night she was murdered. They had spent the evening at The Catacombs, Elspeth had stayed behind on “other magazine-related business” . Didn’t specify what the business was about.  
When asked about how Elspeth was arrested, Reyna stepped in - said all Elspeth did was burn one of her bras during a demonstration. Police last arrested her for ‘public indecency.’ - No one else was arrested that day - wanted to make an example of her?  
No clue on who bailed her out, but they must be super well off. Neither Diedre nor Reyna could afford the bail money, even if they combined their resources ($500) (EXCESSIVE). SF Police wanted to make sure that no one causing trouble could be easily bailed out. This has been going on for quite some time. (Double check this!!)  
Police at first would not give any information about what had happened. They had to go to the morgue to identify her body. Reyna begged them for an autopsy, but they simply told her that it was a mugging gone wrong. (Doesn’t make sense… Nothing was missing from her person!)  
Elspeth’s mother came down from Virginia, and took Elspeth’s body back with her, without letting the girls say goodbye.

Victim #2 Damon Jackson : Wife Mary would not let me into the house, not even after telling her that I was friends with Penny and Agatha. She was not familiar with either of them.  
Let me in once she confirmed I was not a cop through Shep’s contacts. (thank him)  
Damon was hit several times during his arrest - he was arrested for disorderly conduct. No one attended to his injuries. Police refused to process his bail payment ($800!?!?) (WHY SO MUCH MORE?) - Mary could not afford it. Anonymous benefactor bailed him out.  
He was last arrested at Black Panther’s rally - He had gone to play hymns and music. - Police destroyed his guitar when they arrested him.  
Damon was also at The Catacombs on the night he died. (OK…. THIS IS WEIRD)  
He was performing that night he died. He was with Mary. She had left with her sister and brother. Damon stayed behind with Shep and some other friends.  
Police told her that Damon was the victim of a mugging. She doesn’t believe it… She hasn’t had the nicest people interact with her. (Also… Nothing was missing!)  
She didn’t ask for an autopsy. She just wanted to bring Damon home and bury him. She took him back to Detroit and buried him with the rest of his family.  
She said she would be leaving San Francisco soon. She would go back to her family’s home in Oakland, she would get the right support for her and her son there. 

Neither of these unsolved cases sits right with me. The police force (or whomever was in charge of the investigation) must have broken so many rules while cleaning up the crime scene. The fact that the families didn’t press for autopsies would have helped to cover up anything else. 

This reinforces my suspicions that someone on the force must either be the killer themselves, or be working with the killer.

_Why would a police officer put themselves in that position?_

  * Blackmail
  * Distorted way to get rid of “troublemakers” 
  * Something more insidious… psychological? 



I close my notebook and head towards my sofa. I lie down and close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. This is a very old couch (Penny found it for me at one of those student flea markets she goes to all the time) (one of the few furniture pieces I’ve kept), and is full of bumps and lumps all over the place, but after having it for long, I know how to position myself perfectly, so that it gets the job done. 

I reflect on my list. It’s not a very long list, but it’s a start. It could be that someone on the force is being blackmailed into cooperating with these crimes? Could be that the victims were mixed up in something larger and needed to be disposed of…

_Or maybe I’ve seen too many “shoot ‘em up” movies._

What about wanting to get rid of “troublemakers”? Now that would make a lot of sense. I have seen my fair share of cops who would try to cut corners to put a suspect in jail. Cops like Hayes specifically aren’t afraid to blur the lines between what is legal in an interrogation and what isn’t. One thing the cops have in common is their distrust and distaste of the hippies and protesters. Davy’s even told me that I need to avoid them, and that they were nothing but delinquents. He would remind me constantly that I could have been like them had he not adopted me when he did. Why wouldn’t an overzealous police officer take it upon himself to _get rid of troublemakers_ in a fast and easy way?

I don’t even want to consider the last option. But it could be someone who let their inner demons take over their faculties. Someone who was able to hold onto sanity for as long as they could, but then suddenly snap. It happens more often than one might think. Sometimes, the nightmares and the demons, and the black hole inside becomes too much for someone to bear, and they just… Go off. 

A lot of the cases are preventable, I think. In the sense where there’s a lot we don’t understand about the human mind. 

I, for one, know what it’s like… To lose bits and pieces of yourself when your mind decides to play tricks on you. 

It’s my biggest fear, that I’ll end up slipping as well, and go on a rampage. It isn’t that far fetched, to be honest. I’ve heard in the news of vets like me losing their minds and their wills to live. A few ‘Nam vets have made their way into police forces all across the country. Pair several unstable vets with unchecked power and a gun, and you get a very dangerous mix. 

Many of the vets who survived the war, can’t seem to truly leave ‘Nam during their episodes.

I’ve been lucky enough to keep coming back home…

Not everyone is as lucky. 

I don’t think that is something to worry about. The killings were too methodical, too perfectly planned. They don’t seem like the actions of someone who’s reached the end of their rope.

No… out of my “theories”, the one that makes the most sense is the attempt to get rid of those perceived as “troublesome”. At the very least, maybe someone on the force is allowing the murders to happen and covering up because the victims were known by police. Either way, that means I’ll have to go over the names of the cops who were called to the murder scenes. I’m just hoping that I can make an actual break in this case before the killer strikes again. I don’t feel any closer to solving anything now than I was a few days ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to read the other amazing fics included in the COTTA Collection:
> 
> [Carry On Through The Ages](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CarryOnThroughTheAges)


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